Witch Island
Author: David Bernstein
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fantasy; Witches
Description: "A witch s curse from beyond the grave! " Witch Island used to be feared. Even the bravest would not dare go there. Legend said a witch had been burned alive at the stake, and upon her death she cursed the town. Terrified residents performed rituals to keep her spirit trapped on the island where she was buried. Now, over a hundred years later, a group of high school seniors have decided to forgo the local graduation parties and have a small gathering of their own on Witch Island. They don t fear the legends. They scoff at them. But the group will soon learn these particular legends are nothing
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Rights: All Rights Reserved (c) 2014 David Bernstein

Dedication

This one’s for Sandy.

I’d like to thank Don D’Auria and the entire Samhain team. Working with Samhain has been nothing short of fantastic!

Prologue

Margaret Rivers awoke tied to an iron post in the midst of a small clearing in the middle of a heavily wooded area. Freshly cut logs, both thick and thin, lay piled at her feet. The pungent aroma of kerosene filled the air. Night had fallen; the villagers’ torches cast hundreds of dancing shadows along the tree line. There were only five people left from the throng that had taken her from her home. These were the executioners, the witnesses to her death.

Her head throbbed from where she had been clubbed, but her focus remained. The villagers had killed her husband, her soul mate, then burned her house to the ground. Margaret closed her eyes, feeling the anguish of losing him, reliving his death. The entire town had been involved. She had been witness to mob behavior before, when her kind were the focus, which was the reason she and her husband had moved out of Manhattan.

Margaret’s people were misunderstood throughout Europe and America, having to exist in secret. Margaret and her husband had hoped that moving to a remote hamlet, combined with living on the outskirts of town, would have been acceptable to the townspeople, allowing them to live their lives, flourish, and do so without fear. But even in the remote countryside, living on the edge of town and minding their own business proved not to be enough.

“What have you done with Father O’Brady, witch?” a rugged-looking man with a full beard asked. He stepped forward, separating himself from the four other people with him.

“I’ve done nothing to no one,” Margaret said. “It is you that have wronged me.”

“Tell us where Father O’Brady’s body is,” the man continued, “so that we may give him a proper burial.”

Margaret spit at the man. “You’re animals!” she screamed, her fierce stare landing on the face of each person standing before her. “You’ll pay for this. Murderers!”

A balding man with spectacles and a walking stick stepped forward. “Tell us where the good father is, and maybe the Almighty will have mercy on your soul.”

“It’s your souls, and the souls of your children, that you need to worry about,” Margaret hissed. “I curse you all. Your god won’t save you from my vengeance.”

“It’s no use,” said a woman with long blonde hair. “She’s in league with the devil. She’ll spew nothing but lies.”

“You people are the devil,” Margaret said, trying to break free of her bonds. “Father O’Brady was—”

The large man hurried forward and backhanded her across the face. “You shall not utter the good father’s name, witch.”

Margaret raised her head, blood trickling from her mouth. “The father is a good man, unlike you all. I would never hurt such a person.”

“Lies!” cried the blonde woman. “Burn her now, before she spells us and gets us under her control.”

“Yeah,” said another man, holding his torch high. “Burn the witch and be done with her.”

The burly man lowered his torch to the pyre, then backed away. “Now you can join Satan in Hell, witch.”

Margaret cried out, her screams echoing far off in the distance. She prayed to the Good Mother, begging that her soul be absorbed into the forest and remain there until vengeance was hers. She had always practiced peace and harmony, to be one with the spirits of her ancestors, with nature, but her pain and fury were too great, and she wanted the murderers and their children to know of her suffering, of her loss, to know of her.

The five villagers remained, watching Margaret burn alive. Her screams sent chills through them, even though the devil women deserved to die. When the flames began to falter, more wood was added to the fire, the flames burning higher and higher, until all that was left were the witch’s bones. The charred skull fell to the ground and rolled toward the onlookers. The jaw dislodged and tumbled away. The rest of the bones crumbled to the fire, where they lay until there was nothing but smoldering coals.

“We’ll bury her here,” said the burly man, whose name was Kenneth Ryan.

A four-foot grave was dug out of the earth in front of the stake. Margaret’s remains were tossed inside a burlap bag and buried.

“We need a priest to bless this place and make sure the witch stays dead,” said the blonde woman named Jenna Mayfield.

“Well,” said Kenneth, “we don’t yet have one, but first thing in the morning, we’ll go to Washingtonville and have Father Donovan take care of this. The sun will be up, which should keep the witch’s spirit, if she is still present, from rising, at least until nightfall. Then Father Donovan will see to her permanent departure.”

The next day, Father O’Brady came stumbling into town, falling in the middle of the street outside of Gus’s Tavern. He was bruised and bloody, his clothes caked with dirt and leaves. He was taken to Doc Frederick’s place where Kenneth Ryan, the town constable, met up with him. A small crowd of townsfolk gathered outside, as news spread of the father’s return. There, Father O’Brady learned of what happened with the Rivers.

“You fools,” he said, sitting up and wincing in pain. “Do you know what you’ve done? You murdered an innocent couple. Good people.”

“Father,” Kenneth said, “the woman was a witch, living under the devil’s guidance.”

“No,” Father O’Brady said, angrily, then went into a coughing fit. “They were good people. I visited with them, talked to the missus on occasion when she came into town, her husband too sick to leave the house.”

Kenneth looked at the doc, who slowly shook his head, then crossed himself.

“I fear your judgment may be off, Father,” Kenneth said, “your mind tainted by the witch’s spell.”

Father O’Brady’s eyes grew wide, his face a mask of disbelief. “I know evil when I see it, and Margaret Rivers wasn’t in league with the devil.”

“Another priest has been called to take care of the matter. He shall hear your words, look into your soul and decide your fate. Until then, you shall remain in the custody of Constable Ryan.

Two days later, Father O’Brady was visited by Father Donovan, the priest from the nearest town. It was decided that Father O’Brady had indeed been spelled and was under the witch’s influence, and was no longer fit to serve the church. He was stripped of his collar and sentenced to hang, but would be given a proper burial so that his eternal soul would be saved.

Standing on the gallows, the entire town present to witness his demise, he began to wonder if maybe he had been spelled by the witch, for how else could things have gone so terribly wrong, so quickly?

Father Donovan visited the island where the witch was buried. To dig her up and desecrate her remains was too dangerous. It was highly possible that her essence would be able to escape into the body of anyone who touched her, or so it was feared.

Instead, her remains were left untouched. Father Donovan blessed the island, said a few prayers and laid salt around her grave. He ensured the townspeople that a witch’s spirit could not cross a body of water on its own, and that no one was to visit the island. A specialist would be called in to ensure the witch was vanquished for good, but until then, the island was deemed cursed, and forbidden to be walked upon.

Days later, the specialist arrived.

Chapter One

Jim Ryan couldn’t believe it was over as he exited the classroom. He headed down the hall and met Paul by Paul’s locker. The two friends grinned at each other, then smacked a loud high-five.

“Dude, we’re forever done with this place,” Jim said.

“Hell yeah,” Paul said. “Next stop, Pussyville, U.S.A.”

“Oh, real nice,” Gwen said, coming upon the scene as if from out of nowhere. She shook her head in disgust.

“What?” Paul asked, shrugging. “I’m going to a college where the girl-to-guy ratio is 4 to 1. I’ll be swimming in puss—I mean females.”

“Pig,” Gwen said. She turned to Jim. “Hi, babe.”

“Hello there, hot stuff” he said, winking, then slid his arm around her shoulders and held her close.

“Tell me again why you’re friends with this Neanderthal,” Gwen said.

“Hey,” Paul said. “I’m in my prime and can hold wood for hours.”

“Gross,” Gwen said, covering her ears. “Make him stop, babe.”

Jim laughed.

“And what about Shay, your one and only girlfriend?” Gwen asked. “My best friend?”

Paul turned to his locker and opened it. “I’ve been nothing but faithful to her, but with her going out west to school, and myself heading north, well, we’ll be worlds apart. We both have no expectations. And yes, I said ‘we’. What happens while we’re away is our own business.”

Gwen shook her head. “You two are nuts.” She turned to look at Jim. “Not us, right, babe?”

“Nope. We’re solid.”

Paul shut his locker, making sure to put the lock back in place.

“You’re supposed to take those off,” Gwen said.

“Let the janitor earn his money,” Paul said.

They walked down the hall, stopping to say hello and goodbye and see you later to various friends and acquaintances. Jim wasn’t able to take it all in. He wished he could, but his mind was elsewhere. He simply wanted to get home.

“You two are special, you know that?” Paul said, as they hit the sidewalk that led to the parking lot. “The classic high school sweethearts. You’ll live here your whole lives, raise a few kids and be as happy as pigs in shit, with a little bit of regret, but nothing that’ll cause you two to get a divorce or have an affair.” Paul held up a hand. “Before you get all weird on me, I’m saying that’s great for you two, but it’s not for me.”

“I think that might be the sweetest thing to come out of Paul’s mouth,” Gwen said, smiling at Jim.

“Nah, it’s just the truth.” Paul laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Besides, the sweetest things I say are for Shay’s ears only.” He winked.

“I think you mean the dirtiest,” Jim corrected.

“No, it’s true,” Paul went on, “especially when she’s got my di—”

Gwen shot out her hand and covered his mouth. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Speaking of Shay,” Jim said, “where is she?”

“She left early,” Paul said. “Wanted to get a start on getting ready for tonight. With her parents out of town, she wanted to make sure everything was in order before the weekend.” Paul removed his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “Shit, I’m going to be late.”

“Late?” Gwen asked. “School just got out.”

Already heading toward his car, Paul said, “Try telling that to my hairdresser. She’s booked up today. I can’t be late or I’ll miss my spot. Got to look good for tonight.”

“Didn’t he just get a haircut last week?” Gwen asked.

“I think so,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Only Paul would care about his appearance for a camping trip into the woods.”

“I have to go too, babe,” Gwen said, then stood on her toes and gave Jim a peck on his lips. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay tonight?”

“Yeah, fine,” Jim said, forcing a smile. He pretended to look out over the parking lot, avoiding eye contact with Gwen, not wanting her to see the lie in his eyes. He knew she’d bring the subject up—again, but it was only because she loved him.

Gwen reached up and grabbed his jaw, making him look at her. “We don’t have to go to the island. We can change the location. There are plenty of other places to camp out.” Jim attempted to speak, but Gwen held a finger to his lips. “I’m sure everyone, including Paul, will be okay with it.”

Jim gently removed her hand. “No. I’ll be fine. Really.” He made sure to make eye contact with her this time. “I want to be with our friends tonight, get a little fucked up and forget about life. Just have fun.”

“You sure?”

Jim nodded. “I’m sure.”

“And your parents? Did you tell them where you’re going?”

Jim shook his head. “No way.”

“They’re still freaked out about the place, huh?”

Jim frowned. “They’re old, and my mom’s superstitious, that’s all. They should be thankful I don’t do hardcore drugs or steal or get into trouble.”

“Or have a knocked-up girlfriend,” Gwen added.

Jim laughed.

Gwen reached up and pulled him to her. Their lips met, mouths opening. Jim felt the warmth of her gentle tongue against his, sending a bolt of electricity to his groin, but also making his heart feel like it was going to explode.

Jim loved her with all his being. She was his soul mate, of that he had no doubt, and was beyond grateful that he had her in his life. She was the best thing that ever happened to him.

The two lovers parted, Gwen holding onto his hand until she was too far away, the release almost excruciating for Jim, for his heart was saddened by the memories of the past and frightened of what was to come. He kept up the happy face, smiling at her. She winked, told him she’d see him tonight and walked away.

Jim headed to his car, stopping whenever he ran into friends, wishing them well, telling others he’d see them over the summer. There were so many people about to head into the next part of life—get jobs, or go to college.

Originally, Jim had no idea which colleges to apply to, let alone what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. According to his parents, college was a “must”. He had agreed with them. So he’d do what most students did when unsure, and take the basic, core classes while he decided on a major.

With that decision made, he’d had to choose which colleges to apply to. His grades were decent, but he was no Harvard candidate, nor did he want to be, and leaving for another state just seemed too far from his world, the place he felt safe. Some people, like Shay and Paul, were all about going out and seeing the world, living it up and not wanting to settle down until they were older, even if then.

Jim wound up applying to the same college as Gwen. Unlike himself, she knew what she wanted to be and planned on getting her four-year degree before she went on to nursing school. At least they’d be together for the first four years, then they’d see what happened, but he imagined himself having proposed by then anyway. He planned on locking her up early.

Halfway across the parking lot, Jim spotted Darren leaning against his car. Now that was a kid who knew where he was going. He was three times the size of the normal high school student, coordinated like a ballerina, and had been scouted by all the top colleges. He’d been told numerous times that if he performed well in college, stayed healthy, that he’d be NFL bound for sure.

Jim’s hand was swallowed up by Darren’s meaty mitt as they greeted one another, the big man all smiles. “What’s up Jimmy-Jim?”

“Nada much,” Jim said, matching the kid’s gleeful expression. He’d hoped to make it to his car without running into anyone else, but alas he was going to have to fake a good mood again. He just wanted to get home and be alone. He needed time to think.

“Ready for tonight? Darren asked. “Head out to the infamous Witch Island and do some partying.”

“Hell yeah,” Jim said, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it with his enthusiasm. “We’re all meeting up by the boats at seven, right?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Paul’s getting the beer, right?”

“Like always. Bastard’s got a killer ID. I’ll be with him, of course, to help him carry it all.”

A blue Toyota pickup pulled up to Jim’s car. Cindy Maynard popped halfway out of the passenger window. “Hi, Darren,” she said, then lifted her shirt to reveal two perfectly shaped breasts. Jim’s mouth opened. Darren grinned, shaking his head a little. “Something I’ve wanted to do for some time, sexy, and give you something to remember me by.” She pulled her shirt back down, and the truck took off.

“I’m kind of speechless,” Jim said.

Darren shook his head, a huge grin spread over his face.

“Damn, man, girls are already throwing themselves at you,” Jim said. “Did you bang her or something?”

“No, I’m a one-woman guy. Melinda’s the only one for me.”

“I know, just checking,” Jim said. “Our girls don’t know how lucky they are to have such upstanding, keep-their-dicks-in-their-pants kind of guys, do they?”

“I think they just might,” Darren said, nodding.

“You remember when Gwen was upstate with her parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I went to Pete Milford’s party. I was hanging out, drinking, feeling fine, when Melony Stewart started talking to me. She was drunk, touching me, flirting like crazy. Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“She’s one fine-looking piece of ass.”

“No shit. I could’ve nailed her, but I just couldn’t, you know? All I could think about was Gwen and how much I loved her and how a quick romp with another girl would ruin everything.”

“Everyone knows you love Gwen. I’m surprised Melony tried.”

“She was pretty wasted.” Jim felt the moment was right to proceed, and pulled the keys from his pocket. “Is Melinda coming tonight?” He opened the car door and tossed his empty backpack over to the passenger seat.

Darren smacked himself in the forehead. “Crap.”

“What, Melinda isn’t coming?” Jim had only asked the question to keep the conversation going as he worked on leaving without being rude. He’d never thought she wasn’t going to be there tonight. He looked at Darren, leaving the car door open.

“No, no. She’s down. It’s you, man. Are you going to be okay with going there? I mean…well with, you know…”

Jim could take Gwen asking him if he was okay—she was supposed to be concerned for his well-being—but Darren? No, not Darren or any of his other friends. “Look,” Jim said. “Greg died five years ago. I’ll always miss him, but I’m okay now. I mean it’ll always be a thing for me, but I’m good, really—unless my parents find out where we’re going. They’ll flip.”

“Dude, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” he said harshly, the annoyance factor finally getting to him.

“Hey man, just want to make sure,” Darren said, holding up his hands in a defensive manner. “It was Paul’s idea to go there, and well, he can be a little self-centered.”

“I know.” Jim sighed, then leaned against the car door frame, putting one leg over the other. “Paul’s been that way since we were kids.”

“He’s a character,” Darren said.

“I’m sorry, man,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Didn’t mean to come at you like I did. Just a few minutes ago I went through this with Gwen. She’s worried about me, and I don’t want her to…don’t want any of you to worry. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, man,” Darren said, and slapped Jim on his shoulder just as Darren’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from its case on his belt. His face brightened as he looked at the screen. “My future coach. I got to take this. See you tonight, Jimmy-Jim.” He put the phone to his ear and headed to his car.

Jim climbed into his Honda Accord and shut the door, killing the annoying car chime, and breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t believe he had lost his cool with one of his best friends. Tonight’s event at Witch Island must be bothering him more than he knew.

He sat back, wanting a minute to relax before he started the car, when he felt as if he was being watched. He looked to his left and saw a 1968 Chevy Camaro parked in the spot next to his. The ride was beyond sweet, with a cherry-colored paint job and chrome rims. The windows were blacked out, making it impossible to see who was inside, but Jim knew it was Billy Montgomery’s car. Jim had been so focused on tonight and getting home that he hadn’t noticed the vehicle.

Son of the sheriff, Billy got away with everything. The kid was never pulled over by anyone but his father. He was never ticketed for his blacked-out windows, for speeding—which he was notorious for—or any other traffic infractions, like driving while stoned or drunk. Two summers ago, Paul was issued a ticket for the tint on his Jetta’s windows only a day after getting them done. On top of losing money on paying the ticket, he had to remove the tint or face more summonses. Billy had the same blacked-out windows he always had, yet never suffered any consequences.

Jim understood how the world worked, how some people received special treatment because of their position in society—cops, judges, politicians, etc.—but Billy was a total waste of flesh and bone. The kid was always getting high, starting fights, disruptive in class. There was no doubt that if it wasn’t for Billy’s father, that kid would’ve been expelled from school, and probably serving some kind of stint in prison.

Jim continued to stare out his window, seeing his own reflection stare back at him from the black sheet of glass on the Camaro. He noticed that the window was rolled down about an inch. A blast of white smoke billowed out. Most likely, Billy and his stooge, Damien Kellogg, were smoking a big, fat blunt. Jim wasn’t against smoking weed, but not at school. The loser couldn’t even wait until they left the grounds. Then again, it seemed like Billy and Damien were always high. Every time he saw the kid, his eyes practically glowed red. He wondered if the window had been open like that when he and Darren had been talking.

Jim cracked open his own window, and heard heavy metal music coming from Billy’s car. It was noisy outside, kids hollering, cars honking, music blasting, but he would have remembered hearing that noise from the asshole’s car.

Jim stuck the car key into the ignition and started the engine. He rolled his window up and backed out, looking forward to getting home and not having to deal with the likes of Billy Montgomery ever again.

Billy grinned. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

Damien nodded, his eyes fixed on the joint Billy was holding between his fingers. “You going to light that up or what?”

Billy picked up the lighter that had been resting on the dashboard, stuck the joint between his lips and lit it. He puffed a few times. The end of the joint glowed brightly, cascading the car’s interior in an orange hue. Smoke clung to Billy’s face like some phantom beard.

With the joint fired up and cooking nicely, Billy took a long drag, watching the paper burn away as the smoke poured into his lungs. He held it in, fought against coughing and passed the marijuana cigarette to his friend.

Damien mirrored Billy’s actions, holding in the smoke.

Finally, Billy exhaled. He didn’t know why he held it in for so long. Only so much could get absorbed before it was just wasting time.

Damien let loose his smoke, adding to the car’s already foggy interior.

“Damn,” he said, “this is some primo shit.”

Billy was holding in another hit, and passed the joint to Damien. “I know,” Billy said, coughing and exhaling at the same time. He passed the joint to Damien who took a long drag, then passed it back.

Billy sat there for a moment, letting the weed do its thing. It seemed like minutes passed and Damien still hadn’t exhaled. “What are you trying to do, kill yourself?” Damien shook his head, his face turning red. Billy smacked him upside the head and the kid coughed out what little smoke remained.

“Dude, do you really think holding it in that long will get you higher, cause it won’t. Saw a show about pot and how to smoke it properly.”

“What were you saying before?” Damien asked, eyes lined with red capillaries.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, you were about to say something, remember? When that douchebag Jim Ryan was talking to that ’roid freak.”

“Oh yeah, right. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“Something about a party.” Damien took what was left of the joint, now a roach, and smoked the life out of it before placing the remains in the ashtray with about ten other roaches. They’d roll them up later and smoke them too.

“Yeah, a party. Those fags are going to Witch Island.”

“Fuck that place. I ain’t going there.”

Billy punched his friend in the shoulder. “You stupid or something? That’s just a rumor.”

“So why haven’t we gone there?”

“Why the fuck would we want to?”

“Good point.”

“But now we have a reason to.”

Damien sat back in his seat, his eyes barely open. “And what’s that?”

“To ruin those assholes’ good time.” Billy turned up the music. Damien started playing air guitar. “I fucking hate those motherfuckers.”

“Me too. Fucking douches. And their bitches are uber bitches. Think they’re all that and shit. Fucking whores, though I wouldn’t mind doing one or two of them, especially Shay Washington. Mmmmhhhmmm, she’s hot.”

“Well, it sounds like a small group of them are going to that island and camping out.”

Damien grinned, flipping his long hair back. “Party crash?”

“Don’t you know it. We’ll teach those pricks a lesson. I owe them all, especially Ryan. Fucker slammed me into a locker a few weeks ago because I was staring at Gwen’s ass. It’s free to look, isn’t it?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Yeah. You screw with Billy Montgomery, you’re going to pay.”

Chapter Two

Steve Mayfield stared at the bottle of Oxycontin in his hand. The medication was his mother’s. He’d swiped it from her drawer of pills while she was passed out drunk in her usual spot on the living room couch.

Five years ago, his father had walked out on him and his mother. The bastard sold his dental practice and moved across the country with his new twenty-two-year-old secretary, or whore, as Steve’s mom often referred to her as.

Steve’s mother had had a nervous breakdown. All her life, she’d been a stay-at-home mom, taking care of the house and helping with the banking and bills. Feeling like her world crumbled, left with no job skills, relying on government assistance and minimum alimony payments from her husband, she turned to alcohol. The woman drank daily. A friend of hers was able to get her a job at a bank as a teller, but she lost the job after only working there for two weeks, having shown up late repeatedly. Then she lost the house, which she had received in the divorce.

Steve had called family in to help, but they could only stay for so long, and his mother was lost, the woman he knew gone.

After losing the house, Steve and his mom moved into a one-bedroom apartment above a Chinese restaurant. He slept on the couch in the living room, the same place his mother sat every day until she passed out and he carried her to her bedroom.

Welfare covered most of the rent and what little food his mother ate. Steve got an after-school job delivering pizza, refusing to become a dropout, knowing that path would lead to nowhere he wanted to end up. He took home the leftover pizza every night and used some of his earnings to help pay the bills, managing to put very little aside for himself.

One day, drunk off her ass, his mother fell down the stairs. She broke her hip, back and wrist. After her hospital stay, she was sent home and given a prescription for Oxycontin, falling in love with the drug within a week. Her low-life doctor kept prescribing her the stuff. Her lies about constant pain, plus a little extra cash, were all she needed to keep her high.

If all that wasn’t enough to push Steve over the edge, he hadn’t gotten into any of the colleges he’d applied to. His grades, thanks to his busy schedule, just weren’t good enough. He’d have to attend community college, and hopefully get his grades up so he could attend a four-year school. All his close friends were going away, except for Melinda, who was going to stay in town and join her sister’s salon. Without Darren around, he guessed he wouldn’t see her much, as they had very little in common, besides Darren. Steve hadn’t told his friends the truth about his situation, lying instead about his desire to stay home and work, save up, then go to school after he knew what he wanted to do with his life.

His girlfriend, Kelly, had dumped him about halfway through senior year. She had been the one good thing he had going, the reason he found life worth living. They had been together all through high school, but now that school was ending, she was heading off to college and wanted to “see what was out there.” Yeah, Steve thought, see what other guys’ dicks taste like.

Though a complete bitch to him and everyone else, she had been his girlfriend and spent time with him. Sure, they did most of the stuff she wanted to do, but she always wanted him with her. When he didn’t get into college, he at least had her, thinking she was going to get a job and live in the area. But she had secretly applied to a school in Iowa, saying she did it just for fun, not thinking she would get accepted, but she did. She didn’t want to go away with her mind back home half of the time, and as part of her last year of high school, she wanted a clean break, to be a senior without any attachments or baggage.

Steve’s body felt heavy, as if the atmosphere were crushing him. He popped off the lid on the pill bottle and gazed inside at the tiny round spheres of medication. Didn’t his mother realize she had a son? He hadn’t left. He had stayed, and was always there for her. But the pain she felt was too great, he guessed. She chose the easy way to deal with shit. He and his mother could’ve been a strong team, used each other for support, to flourish. Fuck his dad, they’d say.

Steve shook his head, tears blurring his vision. Fuck his mother too.

He brought the container to his lips, wondering how long it would be until his body was discovered. Would his mom even care?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His mind screamed at him. His heart pounded. He upended the bottle. His mouth flooded with the highly addictive drug, tongue absorbing the awful, chalky taste of the pills. He cringed, ready to chew and swallow, when his cell phone rang.

Like a smack to his head, he saw the half-empty bottle of pills in his hand and wondered what the hell he was doing. He spat out the pills, making sure every last one had been ejected, then checked his phone and saw that Jim was calling.

He hit the green phone symbol and said, “Jim, hold on a sec,” then tossed the phone onto his bed and rushed to the bathroom. He cranked the cold water handle on the sink and shoved his mouth under the faucet. He rinsed, spit, rinsed, spit, repeating the process in OCD-like fashion. His gums ached from the cold water. His mind raced with uncertainty and elation. He wondered if a bit of the medicine had absorbed into his body, and if so, would he be okay? Even after rinsing, he still tasted the medication. He turned off the water, then opened the closet and withdrew the extra-large bottle of Winter Mint flavored mouthwash. He rinsed a few times with the harsh liquid, which seemed to do the trick.

Damn, how could he have been so stupid? He could’ve seriously messed himself up, or died. He grabbed onto the sides of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. “You’re okay now.” He still worried that some of the medication had dissolved into him, but then convinced himself that wasn’t the case. He was just being a little paranoid. The pills had only been in his mouth for seconds, then he’d spit them all out.

He turned the faucet back on and splashed his face with cold water, then patted it dry with the hand towel hanging on the shower door. He went back over to the mirror and saw a foolish, pale-faced teenager who deserved better than what he was getting out of life.

He remembered Jim was on the phone and headed back to his room, his heart still racing. He needed a moment to calm himself and didn’t want to feel rushed about doing it, nor did he want to put on an act. He needed his emotions straightened out, not covered up for the sake of conversation. Picking up his cell phone, he saw that the timer was still counting and realized Jim was still waiting. He hit the red phone symbol and ended the call.

Steve sat on his bed and closed his eyes. He counted to ten, and took long, measured breaths. His room was still. He couldn’t believe what he had almost done. He wondered if his cell phone hadn’t rung, would he still have spit out the meds? He’d never know. The only thing that mattered now was that he had spit them out.

He had been in a dark place, but somehow he’d seen the light, and he wanted to live.

Chapter Three

Jim looked at his cell phone again, seeing if he was still connected, when he saw the flashing timer, indicating that the call had ended. He cleared the screen and dialed Steve’s number again.

At times, Jim had felt bad for the kid. Steve’s mother was a wreck, and everyone knew it. His long-time girlfriend, Kelly—too long as far as Jim was concerned—was a total bitch that no one liked and had broken up with him. Along with everything else, Steve wasn’t going to college, which was something Jim knew he wanted to do. Jim had seen a thin envelope from Cornell University on the kitchen counter at Steve’s house just before the start of the school year. Thin envelopes usually meant rejection. Jim couldn’t be sure, but he guessed his friend hadn’t been accepted anywhere, and was too embarrassed to say anything, which was stupid, because Steve’s friends cared and would understand.

Anyway, for the immediate future, as in tonight, Jim worried that Steve would try and back out of the party, hence the reason he was calling. An evening away from his house, his mother, his job, would do Steve some good.

“Yeah,” Steve said, answering his phone. “Sorry, accidentally hit the end call button.”

“You’re still coming tonight, right?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Oddly, Steve sounded upbeat—no, excited. Jim couldn’t help but smile. His friend had been distant lately, quiet, and kept to himself more than usual. He wanted to be there for Steve, like Steve had been there for him when his brother died.

“Good to hear,” Jim said. “High school is over. Tonight, nothing else matters. Nothing. Got it?”

“I actually think I do.”

“Screw yesterday and tomorrow. We’re living for today only, for one awesome night, if that makes sense?”

“It definitely does,” Steve said. “You know, you’re right. I mean, really. Fuck tomorrow. We aren’t guaranteed there will be one. Tonight is all that matters. Good friends, booze and my right hand.”

Jim laughed. It had been a long time since Steve sounded happy, revved up and ready to go.

“See you at 7 p.m., then?”

“Sure.”

“Later.”

“Bye.”

Jim hung up the phone, and called Gwen.

“Hey, babe,” she said.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Just dropped off my grandmother at her friend’s house. It’s card night. Now I’m off to Shay’s to meet her and Melinda. Oh, and guess who else has decided to join us tonight?”

“Who?”

“Julie, Melinda’s cousin.”

“Julie?” Jim asked. “As in the Julie who came to Shay’s cookout last summer? As in the Julie who was hot for Steve, and if it wasn’t for that bitch, Kelly, might’ve hooked up with him?”

“Yup.”

“Perfect.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Gwen asked.

“That maybe her and Steve could pick up right where they left off the last time they were together, except now he’s a free man? Yes, that’s what I’m thinking.”

“Great minds.”

“Great minds,” Jim agreed.

“Love you.”

“Love you too. See you tonight.”

Jim hung up, and not a second later, his mom poked her head into his room. She stood in the doorway. “Big plans for tonight?”

“Just a little get-together with the gang,” Jim said, sliding his cell into his pants pocket.

“Do you know what today is?”

Jim sighed. “Yes. How could I forget? I think about him every day.” He turned and took a seat on his bed. His mother walked into the room.

“I know it’s hard. We all miss him. Did you make it over to his grave yet?”

A chill ran down Jim’s spine every time his mother or father said the word “grave” when referring to his brother. It had been five years, and although he was accepting of the fact, it still bothered him to think about Greg’s rotting corpse lying six feet underground. He hated visiting his brother on the day of his death, preferring to visit on Greg’s birthday, a celebrated occasion. But his parents didn’t see it that way.

“Not yet,” he said, “but I’ll stop by on my way over to Gwen’s.”

“Do you want to accompany your father and me? We’re heading over there as soon as he gets home.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got some things I need to do. I’ll go later.”

“Okay. I’ll see you afterward, then.” She rubbed his head, turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

He still couldn’t fully comprehend that his brother was dead. For some reason, he felt he’d get to see him again, yet he wasn’t sure how he felt about the afterlife. He guessed the details weren’t important, just that when the time came, all would be okay again. As time went on, the pain dulled, but at the same time, the longing to see his brother grew. Death was just plain weird.

On top of it being the five-year anniversary of his brother’s drowning, which took place just off the shores of Witch Island, his friends had planned an outing there.

The original idea came from Paul, and after a quick okay from Jim, the destination for their graduation party was set. The island was the perfect place to get away from everyone. There were a lot of parties going on—at people’s houses, up in Black Rock Mountain—but Jim’s friends wanted a small gathering just for themselves, close friends and a place the police wouldn’t think to show up.

Of course no one, not even Jim, had realized that the last day of school fell on the anniversary of his brother’s passing. Everyone had cleared their schedules, including Steve who hadn’t had a night off in months. Jim couldn’t change the date, and truth be told, he didn’t want to. Greg would want him to go, have fun and get over his fear of the place. His brother would’ve been extremely disappointed in him if he backed out and ruined everyone’s fun, or went and didn’t have a good time himself.

Still, he felt a great uneasiness creep into his bones. He was going to be heading to the place where his brother had died, the infamous Witch Island, a supposedly cursed place.

He hadn’t been there when his brother had drowned, but he’d heard the story from Greg’s friends, the people who had been present.

After a night of binge drinking, Greg and a few friends went down to the lake for a midnight swim. The moon was full, casting a soft glow over the water. Greg was a fantastic swimmer, and whether it was because he was drunk or just wanted to show off, he felt the need to impress a girl he was with. He swam out to Witch Island, his friends hooting and hollering, teasing that the witch would get him. Everyone was having a good time. They were able to watch Greg swim out, but eventually they lost sight of him, the moon’s illumination only supplying so much light. Greg was supposed to yell back when he reached the island, but he never did, nor did he return.

Panicked, his friends eventually called the police. Greg’s body was found just off the shore of the island. It was assumed that his legs became entwined with underwater weeds, he grew tired and drowned.

As soon as the news hit the Ryans, Jim’s grandparents came into town. They were originally from the area, but had moved to Florida. Without hesitation, they blamed the island. As kids, they were forbidden to go near the place, just as their parents had been forbidden. Back then, people feared it—not like today’s kids, who didn’t believe in curses or true evil.

Jim’s parents, as well as Jim, knew of the legend of Margaret Rivers. The whole town knew of it. Jim didn’t think his parents believed in the story—he sure hadn’t—but then his brother drowned off the island’s shores, and his and his parents’ fear of the place began.

From that point on, his mother made him promise he’d stay away from the island. She didn’t even want him going to the lake. Jim’s father sold the family’s two canoes.

Since Greg’s death, Jim had been to the lake, but never to, or near, the island. At first, he let the superstition about the island get to him. He had nightmares of his brother’s drowning, of the witch coming to take him too. He wondered if the legend was true—not only if a woman had died there, but if she had been a witch, and if so, did her spirit roam the place?

As time passed, Jim mourned his brother, and he came to hate the story of Margaret Rivers. There were no such things as witches or haunted islands. He wasn’t going to blame Greg’s death on some bullshit legend. His brother had acted foolishly, and it cost him his life.

A little under a year after Greg’s funeral, Jim’s mother came to his room and wanted to have a talk with him, and for the first time, it wasn’t about Greg or how Jim was doing.

Jim put aside the novel he was reading, finding books the easiest way to escape reality, and listened. She took a seat on his bed, looked at him and smiled.

“I’ve asked you to stay away from the island, the lake, but—”

“Mom,” Jim said, interrupting, “I haven’t gone there. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know, and I trust you, but I know your friends go to the lake on occasion, to swim, fish and boat. And as much as I trust you, I know kids will be kids.”

Jim rolled his eyes, trying to stay calm. “Mom—”

“I was young once too, believe it or not,” she said, talking over him. She wasn’t looking at him now, but at the object in the palm of her hand. It was a ring. “I promised my parents that I wouldn’t do certain things, but did them anyway, just like I know you probably have and will. It’s only natural to rebel.”

Jim wanted to refute what she was saying, but held his tongue. She was right. He was only thirteen and had already done things he knew his parents wouldn’t approve of, like watching x-rated movies and smoking cigarettes.

“Please, don’t go to the lake. I beg you.” Her eyes were teary, almost trembling with worry. “Tell me you won’t go to the lake, to the island. Especially the island.”

“I won’t. I—”

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Shaking her head, she said, “Don’t promise. Just tell me you’ll do your best to stay away.”

“I won’t go near the lake,” he falsely assured her, already feeling the guilt of his lie. He couldn’t tell her he’d never go there. Most of the neighborhood used the lake to fish and swim. What was he supposed to do, tell his friends his mommy wouldn’t let him?

“And tell me you won’t go near the island.”

“Um, the island is part of the lake.”

“Just tell me you won’t go there.”

“I won’t,” he said, trying to sound sincere, then added, “I want no part of that place.” Another lie. As much as he didn’t want to go there, he did want to go. He needed to go. Stepping onto that island would prove to him that there was no witch. Maybe he wouldn’t go there now, but when he was older, he was going. He wished he could tell his parents how he felt, but they’d shut him down before.

“But,” his mother said, inhaling through her widening nostrils, “if you ever do find yourself going to the lake…especially the island, please wear this.” She held out the ring she had been fiddling with.

Jim took the item and admired it closely, though there wasn’t much to it. The ring was heavy, made of iron, he guessed. The top was flat. A pitchfork-like symbol was embossed into the material.

“You want me to wear this?”

His mother nodded. She placed her hands over his, the ring within. “Please, Jim. If you do anything, wear this ring whenever you go to the lake.”

“Okay…” he said, confused.

“Look, there are things in this world we don’t understand. Maybe the stories about the island are true, maybe not. Maybe the place is cursed, riddled with bad luck, or maybe your brother’s drowning was an accident. The point is, we just don’t know.” She removed her hands from his and sighed. “That ring was made a long time ago. Supposedly right after Margaret Rivers was killed. It was your grandfather’s and his father’s before him and so on, passed down through the generations. It was created to protect the members of the families whose ancestors killed the witch. There were five people who witnessed her death.”

“What are you saying?” Jim asked. “You actually believe in witches?”

“I’m telling you that I have no idea what to believe. Your great-great-grandfather was one of the men responsible for Margaret Rivers’ death, at least according to your grandparents. I’d heard the legend of the witch when I was young. It was scary of course, but as we grew older, we laughed at the old people and their tales. I never believed in the legend until Gregory died out there. It got me thinking, brought the story of the witch back to life for me. My parents believed it, warned us to stay away. We had no reason to go there, so we never did. Your brother was too good of a swimmer to have drowned. He’d swum in the lake hundreds of times—”

“Mom,” Jim blurted, “I know how great of a swimmer he was, but he was wasted. He got tired, tangled up in the weeds and drowned. There’s no witch.”

“Please,” she said, “wear the ring for me if you go to the lake. I can’t prevent you from going, but if you do, please wear it.”

“I can’t believe this,” Jim said, sliding off his bed. He paced in a small circle. “My great-great-grandfather murdered a woman because he thought she was a witch?”

“Times were different back then. People were ignorant. Maybe it was murder, but there’s a chance it wasn’t, that the woman was a witch.”

Jim shook his head.

“All I ask is that you wear the ring, okay?”

Jim stared at the ring. It was kind of cool looking, like something ancient, maybe found in a deep cave way underground. If anything, he now had a family heirloom with an interesting story behind it, one he could pass on to his kids, of course making sure they didn’t believe in the legend. He didn’t have any plans to visit the island—the lake, sure, but not the island—at least no time soon.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll wear it if I go to the lake.”

She got off the bed and hugged him. She came away with tears in her eyes. “I know how this looks, but thank you, Jim.” She smiled, wiped away a few tears and left the room.

That was about four years ago. Jim had had time to think, time to ponder. His certainty that the legend of Margaret Rivers was bullshit had waned at times. He grew scared of the island, wanting nothing to do with it. He’d been to the lake a number of times since then, usually just hanging out at the beach or swimming within the roped-off area, never telling his parents, but always wearing the ring like he told his mother he’d would.

Tonight was a chance to set his fears straight, to prove the legend of Witch Island was nothing more than a legend. He had listened to his mother and wore it whenever he went to the lake, but he also wore it other times, so as to not have his friends ask him why he only wore it to the lake and nowhere else. If the truth got out, people might think him weird, that he really believed in the legend.

Jim had never revealed his family history to anyone except Gwen, who found the story incredible. “I can’t believe I’m dating someone related to the Witch Island legend,” she had said, then promised to not tell anyone. He never told her why he wore the ring, leaving that part of the story out, saying it was simply a family heirloom.

Tonight would be different, though. Jim decided to tell his friends the truth about everything, even the ring. Maybe it would spook them a little—at least he hoped it would. And he’d make sure to wear the ring, the relic adding to the atmosphere of the story.

Chapter Four

Sheriff Frank Montgomery drove his town-issued Chevy Tahoe down Lake Road at a steady speed of thirty miles an hour. He drove with the windows down, enjoying the calmness of the hour and the refreshing breeze of a day with low humidity. Normally, he’d welcome such wonderful weather, but not today. The gorgeous conditions would only add to the craziness of the evening. He had always dreaded the last day of school. The calls would start coming in shortly after dusk, like they usually did, when the partying began. It was always the same, and the night was sure to end up with a number of noise complaints, kids driving around drunk, unsupervised parties getting busted and his men having to traipse through the woods looking for the underage party-goers at some kegger.

Since he had been a teen, kids had been partying in the woods, the same places being used, and no secret to the police. He wondered why new locations hadn’t been found, and why all the kids couldn’t just head off to those, keeping the town uneventful and quiet.

Teenagers today were more brazen and unruly than ever. It seemed like each generation became more and more disrespectful, the human spirit deadening. He knew his generation was looked at as rebellious, but they still knew their place and had respect for their elders, unlike today’s teens. He wasn’t sure as to the reason for worsening behavior. Maybe something in the food, or all the music and television shows, or the liberals with all their everyone is equal bullshit. It was probably a combination of everything, including chemicals in the food. Big corporations were always finding cheaper ways of making a product, regardless of how it affected the masses, the little people. Kids weren’t just crazier than ever, but smarter too, and at a younger age.

Truth be told, he had no damn idea what the real problem was, but he feared what the country would look like in the future, with so many bad seeds out there—his son, Billy, leading the pack.

Frank dreaded to think what kind of trouble his son would get into tonight, hoping Billy didn’t wind up getting himself, or anyone else, killed.

Frank couldn’t believe his son had graduated. The school had probably just wanted the kid out of there, not wanting to deal with him anymore, or his father, who got him out of trouble.

Having turned eighteen this year, Billy was now an adult, and no longer able to hide behind the law like he’d done before. Frank should’ve dealt with the kid when he was younger and saw the trouble beginning. At the time, he’d thought it was just a phase. But after his wife died, a piece of him died too, and he dove into his job, leaving Billy to fend for himself. The kid was only twelve.

Frank was the smoker, yet it was his wife who had died of lung cancer. He was devastated by her death, so torn up that he’d lost himself, even forgetting he had a son to raise. He pulled as much overtime as possible, sometimes sleeping at the office. Other times, he’d go to O’Hoolihan’s or one of the other bars outside of town, and get drunk.

He hadn’t been much of a father since his wife passed, letting his son go about as the boy pleased, getting him out of trouble, feeling bad for the kid.

For a while, he had his drug-abusing drunk of a sister help raise Billy, from the age of twelve to sixteen, until she overdosed on heroin and died while Billy was in his room. The kid had been the one to find her in the morning with the needle sticking out of her arm, eyes rolled back and foam dripping from her mouth.

After that, Frank realized he needed to wake up and be a father, be there for his son, the only family he had left. But it was too late. Billy was royally screwed up. He tried getting his son to see a counselor, but each one wound up sending his son to someone “better suited” for Billy’s issues. With each year that passed, Billy’s behavior worsened.

Tonight, Sheriff Montgomery could only hope his son would survive to see another day outside of a jail cell.

He pressed the gas pedal a little harder as the road drew closer to the lake. It wouldn’t take much for a vehicle to wind up in the water, as there wasn’t much room to swerve along the stretch of asphalt he was currently on. Evergreens and an assortment of leafy trees lined the hill on his left. Weeping willows dotted the shoreline on the right and were about the only things between himself and the water. Peering out at the lake, he saw the island. A chill shot through him, just as it always did when he laid eyes on the place. He glanced at the iron ring with the pitchfork symbol carved into it on his right hand. Even with the antique jewelry on his finger, he still feared the island. He’d been out to the place only twice in all his years, once when he was a boy, then again when the Ryan kid drowned, the latter time spooking him to his core.

If he’d had to guess, the sheriff thought his generation was the last to really take heed of what the locals said about the island, that it was a cursed place, full of nothing but evil and despair. His parents echoed those very thoughts, drilling them into his and his sister’s heads to stay away from it.

As a boy, he believed the legend of Margaret Rivers as if it was fact. His parents didn’t like talking about it, while others used the island to scare the kids and keep them in line. “The witch will get you if you don’t do your chores,” his friend’s father would warn, pouring it on even more after a few beers.

But as Frank got older, and more people moved into the area—mostly folks from New York City looking for a better life—his fears of the place lessened. The new kids scoffed at the legend.

At the age of sixteen, some of Frank’s friends decided to take a trip to the island, wanting to see the infamous place for themselves. He reiterated the legend, adding some gory details, hoping to change their minds, but it only served to make his friends more eager to visit the island.

“You’re a real country bumpkin, aren’t you?” Mary Williams said, a girl Frank had the hots for.

“Yeah, what are you, scared?” Henry Clinger asked. “There’s no such things as witches, or ghosts, for that matter.”

Wanting to impress the girl, and not wanting to be labeled a scaredy-cat, Frank went along. From the minute he stepped into Henry’s father’s rowboat, his heart felt like it was lodged in his throat. He made sure to row, needing the distraction.

When they arrived at the island, he wasn’t sure he could force himself out of the boat, but his urgent need to pee proved to be the trigger he needed. He had thought he’d gotten over his fear of the island, but it was one thing to be somewhere else and act like the place wasn’t scary—it was a whole other thing to be stepping onto it.

Even though his friends had said they weren’t scared, he saw the looks in their eyes, the hesitancy of their movements as they walked from the boat.

The island was lush with flora, even more so than any other place in the area. Frank liked to hike in the nearby woods, sometimes for hours at a time. He’d seen it all, but nothing like the island’s superiority of vegetation. Trees grew tall, like they did in a forest or along the bottom of a mountain. Thick vines could be seen almost everywhere, wrapping around tree trunks or hanging from limbs like dead snakes’ tails. The group of three traveled inward, walking along a natural path that cut through the woods, only having to push aside the tall grasses growing along it.

After walking for a short while, they made it to a clearing, at what they guessed was the center of the island. The ground was hardened earth, cracked and dried out, appearing almost charred. In the center was a long pole that protruded from the earth.

“Holy shit,” Mary said, pointing at the pole. “That must’ve been where the witch was burned alive.”

“Bullshit,” Henry said. “You actually believe this hillbilly’s story?” He laughed. “And even if a woman, not a witch, but a woman had been killed here, do you really think the pole she was tied to would still be here?” Henry faced Frank, arms folded over his chest, his left foot tapping the ground. “I think our hick friend here is trying to pull one over on us, Mary.”

Frank felt his innards turn to mush. He wanted to run, but played it cool. “Guys,” he said, speaking calmly, “I’ve never been here. Swear.”

“I think we should leave,” Mary said, taking a few steps back toward the way they had come.

“I know you’re a girl, but come on.” Henry walked up to the pole and laid his finger on it. “You see, there’s nothing—” His words were cut short as his body began to convulse, as if he had been strapped to an electric chair with voltage flowing through him.

Mary screamed.

Frank stared on in amazement, afraid to move.

Finally, Henry fell away and landed on his rump. He shook his head, then stared at his finger.

Frank’s fear faded fast at the realization of what was happening. Henry was trying to scare him.

“We’re leaving,” Mary said, hurrying to Henry and helping him to his feet.

“Yeah, screw this place,” Henry said, his voice cracking. The color had drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly pale.

Frank was confused. Henry was either a great actor or truly frightened, the wet spot on the crotch of his jeans indicating the latter.

“Wait,” Frank said, but Henry and Mary ran back to the boat, leaving him alone. He didn’t think they’d leave him on the island, but didn’t want to wait and find out. Ready to join them, he hesitated. He had to know if Henry was full of shit. He knew if he didn’t check out the pole, he’d be unable to sleep for weeks, his mind thinking about the island.

He stepped up to the pole, reached out a shaky arm, then stopped himself. He couldn’t do it. What if something did happen? What if he was killed by the witch’s spirit? His whole body was trembling. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them. “Screw it,” he said and placed his palm on the steel.

He felt nothing out of the ordinary, save the roughness of the corroded pole. Frank shook his head. Henry was an ass. Mary would be all over the kid, scared, asking Henry for days to come, maybe even weeks, how he felt.

Frank headed back up the trail and heard Mary calling his name when he was about halfway back. He ran the rest of the way, and when he arrived at the shore, Henry already had the boat in the water.

“Come clean, Henry,” Frank demanded. “You were faking back there.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t feel right. I feel—”

“Leave him alone,” Mary said. “Let’s go.”

Not wanting to get on Mary’s bad side, Frank climbed aboard and rowed back to land.

Over the next week, Frank tried getting Henry to admit he faked the incident out on the island, but the kid held onto his story. Frank couldn’t shake the kid, and truth be told, from the look in his friend’s eyes, Frank wanted to believe it was true. Then, one day while he was sitting at his desk, he noticed the ring on his finger, the same iron ring his mother had given him after his father passed away. She said it was special, and would protect him from evil, like the evil that resided on Witch Island.

Frank’s insides shriveled at the thought. Maybe the reason he didn’t feel anything when he touched the pole was because he had been wearing the ring. He felt relief and disappointment fall over him at the same time.

He never found the answers he needed, and had to let time do its thing, but it never fully eradicated his fears. Whenever he passed by the lake, saw the island, he wondered if what had happened to Henry had been real.

Three years after the island incident and on the day Henry and his family were moving back to the city, Frank begged his friend to be honest about what happened on the island. Frank swore he wouldn’t tell Mary the truth about Henry’s lie, and even if he did, Henry would be living in another place far away, never to be seen by Mary again.

“Man, how many times do I have to tell you?” Henry said. “I wasn’t lying about what happened. I don’t even like talking about it, and I’ll be glad when I’m out of this Podunk town and far away from that wicked place.”

Frank just stared at his friend, looking for some sign that he was lying.

“Don’t ever go back there,” Henry said, slapping Frank on the shoulder. “That place ain’t right. That’s all I know for sure.”

Frank sighed, feeling defeated.

“You know, for about a month after that day, I had nightmares every night. Woke up sweating and screaming. I kept dreaming about seeing a woman burned alive. It was terrible. She screamed as her flesh bubbled, bled and melted away. I’ll never forget it. I’m telling you, that place messed me up for a bit.”

“You had them for a month, then all of a sudden they stopped?”

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but…”

“C’mon, you’re moving. No one will know.”

“Well, my mom was really upset that I was having these nightmares all the time. She asked if anything happened to me, and at first I said no, but then I told her how we went to the island and I touched that pole.”

“And…?”

“She knew about the island, you know?”

Frank nodded. “In this town, it’s kind of hard not to.”

“Two days after I told her what had happened to me on the island, some old guy came to see me. He gave me a ring to wear. After that, the nightmares stopped. When he came back for it, I didn’t want to give it up, but he said the nightmares wouldn’t return, and he was right.”

Frank’s stomach felt like it dropped into his ass. “What did the ring look like?”

“Old. Gray. Oh, and it had a pitchfork symbol on it. At least I think that’s what it was.”

Frank wished he’d had the ring on, wanting to show it to Henry and see if it was the same kind of ring Henry had been given to wear, but he’d left it home.

“What did the man who gave you the ring look like? Did you know him?”

“Never saw him before. My mom said he was a guy from the neighborhood. A friend of a friend.”

Henry’s mom called from the station wagon, telling him to hurry up or they’d be late.

“I got to go,” Henry said, and held out a hand.

Frank, half in a daze, took it and the two friends shook.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Henry said.

“Yeah…sure,” Frank said, forcing a smile.

Henry turned and took off for the car.

Frank stood on the lawn and watched the vehicle leave, his friend waving from the window. Frank never saw or talked to the kid again.

Cruising in the Tahoe, Frank took his eyes from the island and stared at the ring on his finger. He almost never took it off, the piece of jewelry making him feel safe, giving him comfort, even when he wasn’t near the lake.

A few years back, he gave the ring to Billy, telling him to always wear it when he went to the lake. He felt silly, knowing his son wouldn’t believe in the legend even if his dad did, but he felt better knowing the kid was wearing the thing. If and when he was planning on going fishing or boating, he’d simply ask for it back for the day.

A week after he gave his son the ring, Darrel Higgins, the owner of a pawn shop over in Newburgh, gave Frank a call—the two men having been acquaintances ever since Frank had pulled over some young men for speeding and found a of bunch stolen goods from Darrel’s shop. Darrel told Frank how Billy had tried to hawk an antique ring, and thought he should know about it. Darrel kept the ring, telling Billy that he needed to have it appraised for its proper value. Frank rushed over, took the ring back and never offered it to his son again.

Finally, with the island passing out of his view, Frank was able to relax.

Chapter Five

Shortly after dropping off her grandmother, Gwen pulled into Shay’s driveway. She was excited about tonight, camping out with her best friends, and doing so on Witch Island. She had passed by the island numerous times while boating, but had never wanted to stop and set foot on it. There was no reason. It was just a small piece of land, loaded with trees, surrounded by water. There were hundreds of acres of woods all around, making the island no different than the rest of the county, and Gwen wasn’t a fan of traipsing through the forest, unless it was to get to a keg party.

But having a campout on an island of legend might be fun. They could tell ghost stories, one of which was the legend of the island itself, get close around the fire and roast marshmallows, have a few beers and simply enjoy the time they had with each other before they went their separate ways.

She used to despise the taste of beer, but most of the parties she attended only had beer, and she wanted to get buzzed so she tolerated it, and by the time she attended her fifth kegger, beer tasted pretty good.

A part of her felt sorry for Jim, but she also thought it would be good for him to face his fear of the island. He liked to play it off that it didn’t bother him, but she could see it in his eyes and on his face that it did, especially whenever they went down to the lake.

Gwen pulled the key from the ignition and exited her car, a five-year-old Toyota Camry. The car ran well and was reliable, despite the numerous dings and dents—the blemishes already present when her parents purchased the car for her. She walked up to the large, Victorian home and rang the doorbell.

Shay’s mother and father were away for a few days. Her parents were lawyers for the Brine and Stark Development Corporation, and in the midst of a huge case in North Carolina, which meant little to Shay and her friends. The important factor was that they now had the huge house to themselves. Shay usually threw parties when her parents were away, but tonight was going to be something and someplace different, low-key and just for close friends.

Gwen glanced back at the driveway, her beat-up car looking so out of place next to Shay’s Mercedes and Melinda’s BMW. She couldn’t help but feel a bit of jealousy.

Gwen’s parents had bought her the Camry as a senior-year present. It was the most expensive present they had ever given Gwen, save the carat diamond her dad found in the parking lot of his job. He’d turned it in to the lost and found, but no one claimed it. After two months, management said he could have it.

Bottom line: Gwen’s parents weren’t wealthy. They struggled to pay bills at times, but for the most part, did okay. They worked hard, her father pulling double shifts at times to bring home some extra cash during the holidays. Gwen loved her parents and wouldn’t trade them for all the money in the world, but she still wouldn’t mind owning a fancy car.

Her older brother was in college, having received a full scholarship. Gwen had walked in her brother’s footsteps, and made sure her grades were great so she could go to the college of her choice and make something of herself. All her hard studying had paid off. She had a full ride to Stanford, the same place Jim would be attending. She’d nearly gone through the roof when he received his acceptance letter.

Staring at her car, she was more than appreciative to have it. It would be coming to school with her, get her where she needed to go and be there for her, but when she was done with college, had her career and got a job, a real job, she was going new car all the way. She looked forward to the day she would be able to buy one, but more than that, she couldn’t wait to help her parents out. They deserved so much more than they had, including an early retirement. Having a degree in psychology wasn’t a guaranteed moneymaker, but if she worked hard, the cash would come.

Gwen rang the doorbell again, wondering what was taking Shay so long to answer the door. She took out her cell phone, ready to call her, when the door opened. Gwen screamed with joy, throwing her arms out, mirroring Shay’s reaction, and the two friends wrapped their arms around each other.

“You’re crushing me,” Gwen said, laughing.

Shay let go. “I’m just so happy for us.” She threw up her arms and twirled. “Done with high school, parents and this small town.”

“You do realize you’re going to college in a small town?”

“Yeah, but…you know what I mean.” Shay playfully swatted Gwen’s shoulder, then pulled her inside.

They went upstairs and joined Melinda and Julie in Shay’s bedroom, which was the size of Gwen’s parents’ living room. A huge canopy bed extended from a wall. A sixty-inch flat screen was attached to the wall opposite the bed. Next to the largest of three plate-glass windows was an ornate-looking computer desk and executive chair, two brand new laptops resting on it. A walk-in closet housed numerous rows of shoes on one side, clothing on the other. A purple sofa took up space in front of the windows, facing the room.

Gwen took a seat on the bed next to Shay. Melinda was spraying a number of Shay’s perfumes, deciding which one she wanted to wear tonight. Julie lay sprawled across the sofa, reading the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, her long red locks flowing over the side.

“So,” Gwen said, “I heard Steve Mayfield will be coming tonight.”

“It would be nice if he wasn’t still dating that bitch,” Julie said, flipping a page angrily, then looked up, as if she couldn’t believe she’d said that aloud.

“You didn’t tell her?” Gwen asked.

“No,” Melinda said, grinning. “Thought I’d surprise her.”

“Tell me what?” Julie asked, putting the magazine down.

“Steve and that bitch,” Gwen said, answering for Melinda, “as you so accurately described her, broke up.”

Julie’s face brightened, a smile formed. “How long ago?”

“Little over four months ago,” Gwen said.

Julie sat up and scowled at Melinda, who was still spraying herself with perfume. “Why didn’t you tell me? I might not go to the same school, but I only live a few towns away.”

“I think I’m going with this one,” Melinda said, holding a dark purple, chubby-looking bottle of perfume.

“Mel, I’m serious.”

“Steve needed time to get over Kelly,” Melinda said. “You’d have simply been a rebound, and if I’d told you, you would’ve tried to get with him. I know how much you like him.”

“Yeah,” Shay said. “You don’t want to be the first one in there while he’s dealing with a hurt heart.”

Melinda held up the bottle of perfume. “Did you bitches hear me? I’m wearing this one, so don’t. I want to smell…unique.”

“Has Steve been with anyone since the breakup?” Julie asked.

“Dated, no,” Melinda answered. “Screwed, yes.”

Everyone stared at Melinda, mouths agape.

“What?” she said, shrugging, and took a seat next to Julie.

“Who’d he screw?” Julie asked.

“Some skank—” Melinda paused. “I mean, some girl he met at a party. He was with me and Darren. Steve was wasted. I think the girl practically raped him.”

Julie punched Melinda in the arm.

“Ouch,” Melinda said, rubbing her shoulder. “You should be glad. It helped him get over the ex.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gwen said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No it’s not,” Shay said. “I agree with Mel, at least when it comes to guys getting over someone. Screwing someone else seems to break the connection a little. A swift slice.” She made a chopping motion with her hand.

“So…” Julie said.

“So,” Shay echoed, “he’s all yours now.”

“You think?” Julie asked. “It’s only been a short time. He was with her for years.”

“Oh, it’s time,” Shay said.

“And besides,” Gwen said, wanting to make sure Julie was as confident as possible before seeing Steve, “you two really hit it off last year at the party. I saw sparks, for sure. He couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Shay bounced excitedly on the bed. “Oh, yeah. He definitely has a thing for you. He was just like one of those abused animals that are so used to getting beat that they get confused and become super loyal to their owners. He’s over that shit now. Give him a blowjob and he’ll be yours.”

Silence, then the room broke into laughter.

“I’m hoping for a little more than that,” Julie admitted, her cheeks turning red.

Shay laughed even harder. “Oh no, you didn’t just say that.”

Melinda scoffed at Julie. “Julie!”

“What?” Julie said, looking around the room, her face beet red. “I haven’t been with anyone in awhile, and I need to get me some.”

Everyone laughed even harder.

“I think we all plan on getting some,” Shay said, nodding. “I plan on draining my man dry.”

“I don’t know,” Melinda said. “Doing it in the woods, with all the bugs and snakes…” She shivered. “It ain’t like we’re bringing tents.”

Shay pounded her fist in disbelief against the mattress. “Get out of here. You’ve never had sex in the woods? Hugging a tree while your man pounds you from behind? That’s getting in touch with nature, sweetie.”

“No, we’re civilized sex people,” Melinda said with a straight face, then burst out laughing. “We use backseats and living room couches.”

More laughter.

“So for tonight, just blow him,” Gwen said. “This way you don’t have to worry about bugs crawling up your holes.”

The laughter and sex talk continued for a while, the girls having their fun, discussing whose man liked what and other intimate details. Eventually, the girls went downstairs for dinner. Shay grilled up some chicken breasts on the backyard barbeque and the girls ate Greek salads with them, also prepared by Shay.

After dinner, Melinda and Julie went upstairs to get ready for tonight, while Gwen and Shay sat in the living room, Gwen getting lost in the plush couch that extended around the room in front of a huge, stone fireplace. She could get used to living here, but wondered if owning such a nice place cost more than money. Shay’s parents were always busy, and had been since she could remember. Some people, she guessed, just liked to work and have things, when they should realize that having children is the greatest thing a person could be given.

“Julie’s one horny little bitch, eh?” Shay said from her seat across the room.

Gwen was done with the sex talk. Shay was a nympho and could talk all night about the subject, except when it came to Paul. That topic, though bragged about, was never talked about in detail, like the way he moved, his size or anything else.

As Gwen stared at Shay, she wondered how her friend could be okay with leaving Paul, the two going to different schools, hundreds of miles away from each other. She supposed it was natural, that it happened to a lot of couples. Some made it, others moved on. She supposed she was lucky that she and Jim were going to the same college. Gwen felt a weight press down upon her. She was going to miss her friends, which was why tonight was all that much more important. Sure, they all had the summer to hang, but tonight was when they all would be together, and she had no idea when that would happen again.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Gwen asked, sitting up.

“Uh-oh,” Shay said. She got up and hopped onto her dad’s recliner, pushed on the lever and fell back. “I’m ready to talk, doctor, or are you the patient?”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “You’re really okay with you and Paul going to different schools?”

“Hell yeah.”

Gwen watched her friend, looking for a crack in her bullshit suit of armor, but found none. “I’d freak out if I had to be away from Jim for so long.”

Shay stared at the ceiling, the chair almost horizontal. “You’re not me,” she said. “In fact, you and Jim are the opposite of me and Paul. You two are soulmates, meant to be together.” Shay paused. “Me and Paul…well, we both want to experience the world outside of small town life.”

“So do I,” Gwen said, defensively.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Shay said. “I mean, I wish I had what you and Jim had, and maybe I do, but I’m not willing to go there yet, and neither is Paul.”

Gwen thought she heard a twinge of sadness in her friend’s voice.

“I love Paul,” Shay continued, “but he’s going away to college. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to wait for me. I wouldn’t ask him to do that. He needs to sow his oats as the saying goes—experience life as an adult, outside of this small town. And I know he wants the same thing for me. If we’re meant to be together, then it’ll happen.”

“Aren’t you worried you’ll lose him, forever?”

“I’ll miss him, but we’ll keep in touch—internet, phone, his inability to forget about me because I’m so damn sexy and wild in the sack. Other than that, whatever happens, happens.”

Shay pulled the lever on the chair and bolted to an upright position. “I bet if you and Jim went to different colleges that you’d both be faithful, and wind up marrying each other when all was said and done. You’re a lucky girl.”

Gwen’s chest grew warm, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“Enough of this crap,” Shay blurted as she sprang out of the chair. She hurried to Gwen, grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her to her feet. “Tonight’s about fun and the now. Screw tomorrow; who knows if it’ll come.”

Shay turned and headed upstairs. Gwen followed, and the two joined Melinda and Julie, who were both applying makeup after their showers.

“Bathroom’s free,” Melinda said.

“I’ll go next,” Gwen said, and headed into Shay’s gorgeous and huge bathroom.

Chapter Six

George Wilford was getting too old for this shit. He needed a partner, but there was no one he could trust. His wife was a lazy-ass, always complaining about this and that, but never wanted to lift a finger to do anything, including cook a decent meal. The bitch wanted things too, like jewelry, a new television, a new car—yeah right, yet she wouldn’t go to work. George’s pension from the post office wasn’t cutting it, so he went into business for himself after being presented with a golden opportunity.

Sitting in his rowboat, the green paint all but faded from years under the sun, he rowed across the lake, his left shoulder barking every time he rotated it. He had a partially torn rotator cuff according to the scans his doctor had shown him. He needed surgery, but he wasn’t about to let some knife-eager sociopath open him up. That shit only led to more problems, just like when he brought his pickup truck to the mechanic. One thing got fixed, but there was always something else that needed repairing. Hell, in this economy, those bastards probably caused other shit to happen just so they could get the vehicle back in the shop. Well, George knew better than to do that, which was why he fixed the truck himself and why he wasn’t getting any surgery. His arm still worked, just not as well as it used to.

Physical therapy was the next best option; he just didn’t want to spend the money on it—his insurance only covered so much—but after his new venture panned out, he’d be visiting his doctor again and getting that referral.

As George’s boat approached the island, he spat, thinking how silly it was to have named the place Witch Island, as if any of the legend had really happened.

George had lived in Salisbury Mills for all sixty-two years of his life. He grew up with the stories of the island, how people had gone missing because of the place. He never believed in them. Such superstitious garbage was for the weak-minded idiots that needed something to be afraid of because the shit in the actual world—sex, murder, rape, mass killings—was all too real for them.

George hadn’t heard any stories recently though, guessing it was because the kids of today were too involved with video games and cell phones, never taking the time to give a shit about something that wasn’t virtual—and when they went to the movies, especially a horror movie, they laughed at the scenes involving someone getting the ax, or eaten by a monster. George knew why—it was the fucking cell phones. He stopped going to the movies, the one thing he did enjoy, because half the theater was lit up with kids texting. He was amazed at how so many young people were great at multitasking—searching the web, texting their friends and watching a movie, yet when it came to education they were all lazy, no good shitheads.

Getting closer to the island, he did remember the last incident, the drowning of that Ryan kid. The little punk, George thought. Who the hell went swimming while they were wasted out of their minds? Some of the locals, families that had lived in the area for generations, especially Mary Hostetler, blamed the kid’s death on the island, on the witch, Margaret Rivers. Bullshit. Damn kid drowned because he got tired and was too drunk to realize it.

And then there were those other accidents, the ones before the Ryan kid drowned, but those were over twenty years ago. A few rowboats had sunk to the bottom of the lake, drunk assholes claiming the trees and vines had reached out and attacked them. More bullshit, George thought. Just a bunch of stupid hippies that had smoked too much dope or taken too much acid.

But all in all, the rumor of Witch Island was a good thing, at least, for him. He worried a little about the kids of today, for they weren’t afraid to go there, but the older folks, including the sheriff, were fearful. However, no one wanted to go to the island. There was nothing there, which was why it was the perfect place for him to grow his pot plants.

George used to grow the infamous five-leaf plants in his backyard, the property fenced in and out of sight. But then Jack Peabody’s farm, only a few miles away, was raided—the man’s pot field burned to the ground—and George grew worried the authorities would see his crop from their helicopters, just in case they were checking the area for other growers. George didn’t have a field of pot plants like Jack, but he wasn’t taking any chances. And since Jack’s farm’s demise, the local need had grown, giving George the idea to cultivate more and sell to the locals. If his crop was ever found on the island, and he was questioned, he’d say he knew nothing about it. The island wasn’t his property, after all.

And what a wonderfully great idea it had been to cultivate the plants on the island. Along with the other flora, his pot plants were growing like crazy. George was a woodsman, had hiked—and loved doing so—in the area for years, but he’d never seen flora with such vivid colors, and so healthy, as he did on the island, well, most of the island.

There was one area, a clearing, somewhere in the middle, where a rusty old iron pole stood erect in the ground. Not a single weed sprouted from the hard, dried-out soil, the dirt appearing as if it had been scorched a long time ago and never recovered. Some superstitious idiots must’ve found the pole back during the time when people thought witches were real, and came up with the story of the witch and how she had been burned alive there.

Though, George guessed it was possible that a woman had been killed on the island, but it definitely would have had to have been during the 1800s, maybe the early 1900s. Back then, people were ignorant and even more irrational, and probably did think witches were real.

But evil spirits? Back from the dead to roam the land and take vengeance on the living? No siree, George thought. That was for those twisted horror writers and movie makers.

George’s boat ran aground. He stepped out, his fly-fishing pants keeping him dry, and pulled the craft ashore, hiding it behind some trees. He picked up his machete, then grabbed his backpack, which contained a bundle of thirty-gallon garbage bags and bottles of water, and headed down the barely visible path.

About twenty feet inland, he thought the trail would be obvious, but it had almost completely grown in since his last visit, which was only a week ago. He hacked and slashed again, not going too crazy, knowing it would grow back by the time he returned for the next harvest. He quickly built up a sweat, his body feeling weighed down.

Damn it, he wasn’t cut out for this type of work anymore. There was a time when he could’ve leveled the whole island, but now he was a tired, achy old man. A partner was looking real good right about now. Maybe he’d call his nephew, Kyle, over in Cornwall. The guy was a loser and a drunk, but family nonetheless, and George always had a soft spot for him. Why, he didn’t know.

He stopped, took out his hanky from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow, then continued onward, making sure to drink every so often from one of the bottles of the water in his backpack.

When George reached his crop, he hardly recognized the area. The clearing was overgrown with weeds and tall grasses. He had completely cleared the place the last time he was here, chopping the weeds down to the earth, even pulling the larger ones from it. That shit would rob his pot plants of nutrients, and he wanted his stuff to be premium quality, but to his pleasant surprise, his five-leaf beauties had grown into monsters. He’d never seen pot plants so large. Each leaf had to be at least two feet long.

“Hot damn,” he said, grinning.

George slid the backpack off and looked inside. He was going to need more garbage bags, and some help. There was just too much weed. Maybe he could hire some border-jumper from Newburgh; they were always hanging out on the corners looking for work. Plenty of people used them, including his friend, Bob Jacobs, who owned a roofing business, and whose business would’ve gone under if it wasn’t for the cheaper labor.

But cultivating pot wasn’t quite legal. George shook his head. He’d definitely have to call his nephew. He couldn’t risk some stranger knowing where his crop was located. He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone, even family, but now he’d have to.

He’d take care of that tomorrow. For now, he was harvesting what he could. School was over and the demand would be up. Kids would head to Newburgh for their weed, so he had to get these plants down and into his bags, then dry them out in his barn.

Raising the machete, he began cutting down the plants. About five minutes into his work, he paused, feeling as if eyes were upon him. He looked around, listening for movement, but heard and saw no one.

“Someone there?” he asked. “If there is, I’ve got plenty of shit here for both of us.” He stood completely still, fighting the need to itch his face as sweat trickled between his eyes.

Finally, he laughed. There was no one there with him. He would’ve heard the rustling of branches, their footfalls. He was just nervous. Sure, he was safe where he was, but he still had to haul the shit back to his home. Until he had the stuff in his barn, he guessed being a little nervous was natural, good in fact.

He’d checked the path and surrounding weeds for soda cans and wrappers. Checked the ground for footprints. Saw that the grasses were up and swaying, not crushed or broken. He’d found no sign that anyone had been on the island.

George returned to slashing the plants. He worked for an hour, taking breaks to rest, drink water and even pour some over his head. The sun was working hard today, shining in all its glory, making the pores along George’s skin yawn wide to release the salt-laden liquid within him. But George, even in his 60s, was an outdoorsman, rugged and ready to do whatever needed doing, in all kinds of weather.

Staring at the few remaining plants left standing, George reached for the machete, having leaned it against a tree during his last break, and wound up running his palm along the blade. He cried out, feeling the blade’s bite, and jerked his hand back. He saw the gash and the blood seeping from it.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said, whipping his hand up and down as the sting really set in. Specks of red splattered his boots and the ground around him. That’s what you get for keeping the blade so sharp, he thought. Not only did he not need this, but he’d sliced open his right hand, his cutting hand. There was a first aid kit back at the boat. Someone might say he was overly prepared, but after the fishing fiasco—his friend slicing off the tip of a finger while gutting a fresh catch—he always kept a kit on the boat.

The red was really flowing now. He would clean his hand, wrap it, then come back, stuff a few bags and return another day for the rest. He had plenty for now. George sheathed the machete and started back toward the boat, leaving a small but noticeable trail of blood behind.

She had felt the man’s presence as soon as he stepped onto the island, her island. He was one of them, a descendant of those who had sentenced her to death. Anger flashed across her field of vision. She wanted to lash out, to kill him, but she was too weak. It had been so long since she had last fed, five years and counting.

Since her death, she had been aware of existing. She was not one thing, but a part of everything, her surroundings, of nature. The Good Mother had seen to it that she remained on the human plain of existence. Revenge was not easily had, as she came to learn, and over time, her anger faded as she took up residence with the plants, insects and animals of the island. She came to love the frogs’ slimy bodies, the snakes’ cool scales as they slithered to and fro, the turtles as they bathed in the sun, the insects as they built homes or crawled along the forest floor. She loved them all.

Like the animals, the trees, plants, vines and shrubs were full of life, but a different kind. They just were, accepting their part in the world, neither happy nor sad, but neutral, growing and supplying nature with what nature needed.

Margaret Rivers was a part of it all, aiding in the island’s growth and existence, helping where she could, recycling the dead, ensuring what the Good Mother had given her.

Human contact, the boaters, trespassers, were what kept her human side alive, the need for vengeance remembered. She wondered during these times if the Good Mother had granted her stay in order to calm her spirit, give her rest so she could move on, but then the humans would come and Margaret’s memories of the past, of her and her husband’s murders, came to life again.

Life was pain. And the island, for all its glory, knew pain too. A frog born without a leg had a hard time surviving. A turtle with a soft shell didn’t last long. When a hawk pierced a snake’s body, the reptile knew agony. Pollutants from the water, from man-made fuels, excreted from their machines, made animals and plants sick. Garbage and waste—all of them dark, evil substances that penetrated her body, the island, tainting the Good Mother’s soil, going against everything that was natural.

Now, this man, this putrid, selfish creature was back. He’d been here before, and she hated him. She wanted to make him suffer, wanted to kill him slowly, but she was too weak. He had planted foreign seeds in her. They were natural, part of nature. Margaret was pleased, thinking maybe she had misjudged the man, his spirit on a path of redemption for what his ancestors had done, but then he returned to the island and destroyed what he gave her. He was another taker, another putrid human out to hurt and maim.

Margaret wanted his blood, could taste it on her tongue—if she’d had one. Her anger boiled at its height as the man continued his destruction of her island. She needed to stop him, to kill, to avenge her husband’s murder, her murder. She had nurtured what the man planted, took care of them, made them grow big and strong. She had never known such a plant, and was overjoyed to have become acquainted with it.

Rage fractured her, as it had throughout the years, and she called out to the spirits, to the Good Mother, begging for vengeance. She feared her call would go unanswered, as it had many times, but then the trespasser bled and the blood was absorbed into her.

She swelled with exaltation. The man’s blood had brought the past rushing back, the memories like a fresh experience from only moments ago. The witch seethed. The blood was as glorious as it was sour, rotten, but she lapped it up, sucking into the earth, into the flora. Energy flowed through her, the sensation of being awakened, but it wasn’t enough. She needed the man to burst open, she needed all his blood, unless…

She waited, feeling the man run, his footfalls pounding against the earth. She heard his heart beating faster, his breathing speed up. He was moving, running, heading toward the sacred place, her place.

Finally, the man stepped onto the hallowed ground, the place of her demise. His blood was even more invigorating here, potent, giving her more power. She was able to absorb more of it, and directly into her bones.

She screamed, feeling a modicum of her strength return, knowing vengeance would soon be hers.

George opened the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it over the cut. The stinging sensation increased, but was welcomed. The white bubbles formed, killing the germs. He’d recently heard that using hydrogen peroxide killed healthy cells too. Hogwash, he thought. People had been using the stuff for years, and it was better to kill germs than to succumb to infection. If a few healthy cells died, he had plenty more to take their place.

After rinsing off his hand a few times, he bandaged it with gauze, using two metal clips to keep the cloth from unwrapping and falling off. It was good enough for now. He’d do a more thorough job when he arrived home. Now, he had a job to finish.

George headed back to the crop. He opened a garbage bag and began stuffing it with plants when something slid around his left ankle. Flinching, he looked down and saw that one of the vines from the forest had coiled around him.

What the hell?

He withdrew the machete from its sheath on his belt, figuring he’d cut himself free, when a vine from another part of the woods shot forth and snaked itself around his wrist.

George’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He heard a rustling noise from behind, and turned to look. Another vine came from the woods, this one creeping along the ground, shoving aside dead leaves and twigs. It reached his left ankle and encircled it, tightening. George was too dumbfounded to move, his brain freezing up on him. He looked at the bag of weed, wondering if the plants had somehow gotten him high. Maybe when he had cut himself, whatever was on the machete’s blade had seeped into his bloodstream, causing him to trip as if he were on acid.

Fuck this, he thought. It ain’t real.

He tried to lower his machete-wielding arm to no avail, the imaginary vines holding tight. Using his free hand, he reached over to grab the machete, but the vine around his left wrist squeezed, causing him to drop the tool. Blood oozed from where the rough bark sliced into his skin.

Shit.

Then the vines pulled his legs apart, and he fell on his ass. More vines shot from the woods, and from all angles, wrapping themselves around his arms, legs, neck, and free hand. His ankles and wrists were in immense pain as the vines constricted, the blood cut off to his hands and feet.

George screamed as he fell onto his back, his voice raspy and pathetic. “Help. Somebody help me.”

The vines continued to pull his arms and legs in opposite directions. His legs were almost in full split form, his crotch in agony. A vine slithered up his pant leg and slid around his groin.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He cried out, attempting to break free, but the vines were too strong. He heard something snap in his groin, then felt a sharp, stabbing pain tear into his gut as each leg was ripped from his body. Blood exploded from the gaping holes, saturating the ground in glossy red.

Another vine wrapped itself around his throat, silencing his screams and cutting off air to his lungs. He felt more vines seize him, tightening around every part of his flesh, entering the holes where his legs had been, slithering inside him. With bulging eyes, he stared into the baby blue sky as his head was torn from his body, and George Wilford knew no more.

The witch lapped up the man’s blood, absorbing it into her pores, feeding the island, feeding herself. She suckled his flesh, his bones, until they were no more. New life, new power, flowed through her. The island shuddered. She stretched, moaned and cackled. Birds took flight, frogs leaped into the water, turtles hid beneath their shells. Worms burrowed to the surface, while ants and beetles scurried nervously.

After a human kill, desperate for more power, the witch had fed on such creatures, their blood keeping her conscious with human memories.

Now, she begged the Good Mother to deliver her further sustenance, and the power she needed to exact her revenge and make the sons and daughters of her murderers pay the ultimate price.

If only more would come to her, feed her. If only…

Chapter Seven

Melinda stared at herself in the mirror through tear-rimmed eyes. She took a deep breath and fluttered her eyelids, trying to stem the waterworks. She’d been doing this successfully over the past few weeks. A tear managed to escape, and trickled down her cheek. With a quick swipe of her hand, the salty droplet was vanquished. She forced a smile. “Everything will be okay,” she said softly.

Her stomach was in knots, and had been for a while now. She’d lost eight pounds recently, having been unable to eat much of anything, save alcohol, which helped with her pain and guilt. Thank goodness it was her senior year because she couldn’t concentrate on her work, or much of anything else. Around others, her friends especially, she put up a good front, pretending everything was okay, but it wasn’t. She thought time would make it all better, but she was only feeling worse. She needed to talk to someone. She wondered who she could truly trust, but it didn’t take much to know the answer was Gwen.

She’d told Gwen things before, like when she’d gotten pregnant with Darren’s child. That had been a crazy, uneasy time. It had given her a ton of practice in the art of pretending—the fake smiles, laughs, interests, when all she thought about was the choice she had made, but she’d done it for the right reason. At least she thought she had.

Gwen had been so understanding, and promised to never tell a soul. Melinda had decided to keep the truth from Darren. He was on a path for the NFL, for greatness, and if she had a child with him, he might do the right thing—which was the wrong thing, and forgo college and get a job to support her and his child.

Sure, Melinda wanted Darren home, wanted him to marry her and start a family, but it wasn’t the right time. She had things she wanted to do too, and having a child would change all that. The fact that she had been thinking all of these things was evidence enough that she wasn’t ready to be a mom. She had confided in Gwen, asking not for advice, but just someone she could unburden herself to. Gwen never judged her and remained a good friend, never even brought the topic up or talked about it unless Melinda did first.

Couples usually told their secrets to each other. Melinda had worried that Gwen would tell Jim, but if she had, and had lied about doing so, Melinda hadn’t been able to tell. Jim never looked at her oddly, or with pity, and he obviously never told Darren.

So all this was why Melinda decided to go to Gwen again with another serious situation. No, it wasn’t as serious as the abortion decision, but it was still gut-wrenchingly awful, with detrimental consequences if it became known to others.

Melinda cracked open the bathroom door and called Gwen’s name.

“Yeah,” Gwen replied.

Music was playing in Shay’s room now, which Melinda was grateful for. She didn’t want to have to worry about the others hearing her and Gwen talking.

“I need your help with something.”

“Be right there.”

Melinda sat on the closed toilet lid and waited, feeling like she had to pee from nerves.

Gwen poked her head into the bathroom. “What’s up?” she asked, smiling, then her brows furrowed. “What happened?” She came in and closed the door behind her.

“I did something…really, really stupid.” The room blurred as the tears came. She blinked rapidly and took deep breaths to try and stem off a full-out bawl session.

“Talk to me, sweetie,” Gwen said, kneeling in front of her. “Is it Darren? Did something happen?”

Melinda shook her head. She was looking down and watched a tear dot the right leg of her pants. “I cheated on Darren,” she said, her voice squeaky. More tears fell.

“You didn’t…”

Melinda nodded.

Gwen laid her hands on Melinda’s arms, squeezed gently, and looked up into Melinda’s eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

“Do you remember the Cohens’ party last week?”

“Yeah.”

“Darren was away, visiting his new school.”

“Right.”

“I was really down. Have been for a while. I got really wasted at the party. Paul was there and…”

Gwen put a hand over her mouth, her face in shock. “Oh my God, Mel. Paul? Shay’s Paul? Tell me you’re joking.”

Melinda shook her head slowly, cheeks glistening.

Gwen stood, plucked a tissue from the box on the back of the toilet and offered it to Melinda.

Melinda took it and wiped her face, then blew her nose.

“I found myself upstairs in one of the Cohens’ bedrooms. He found me there. He saw how depressed I was, caught me crying. He told me things were going to change after high school. He and Shay were breaking up. It was time to explore new things. Darren was a fool for leaving me.” Melinda looked up, catching Gwen’s stare. “I can’t explain it, but I needed someone at that moment. A friend. He held me. Talked to me. It felt so good. We drank more…then it just happened, the kiss. He’s cute, you know, and I was wasted. He was being so nice, understanding. We started going at it, ripping off each other’s clothes and…”

Gwen was unmoving, unblinking.

Doubt crept into Melinda’s head. She wondered if her friend was judging her, and wouldn’t be so understanding this time, or there for her. Melinda had committed the cardinal sin among friends. Shay was Gwen’s best friend, but they’d all been friends since junior high school.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen. What do I do?”

Gwen bit her lower lip. “Nothing. You do nothing.” Her deadpan expression turned to one of anger. Her nostrils flared, eyes narrowed.

Melinda shrank back, afraid of what her friend might do, but then Gwen surprised her.

“What we’re going to do is cut Paul’s balls off.” Gwen backed against the door, lips pursed. “Damn him,” she said, and kicked the door. “How could Paul do this to you and Darren, to Shay, to all of us?”

“It was my fault too,” Melinda said. “It takes two, remember? I may have been drunk, but I was just a part of it as Paul. It was stupid, so fucking stupid. Paul feels the same, least I think he does.”

Gwen gave her a questioning look.

“He doesn’t talk to me anymore, let alone look at me. Whenever we pass by each other in the hall, he looks down.” Melinda shook her head, then stomped the floor. “Damn it. I don’t know what he’s thinking…if he’s sorry, ashamed, or just done with me.”

“Look,” Gwen said, putting both her hands on Melinda’s shoulders, “you fucked up royally. There’s no getting around it. Paul has always been an ass. He’s slid his dick into plenty of girls, Shay puts up with it. She isn’t an angel either, but she’d never shit where she eats. This further cements that Paul is a total asshole. A real scumbag. He doesn’t get fall-down wasted. He can hold his liquor well. I’d bet anything that he knew exactly what he was doing. He simply can’t keep his dick under control.”

“Should I tell Darren? This has been eating away at me—”

“Hell no,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “You want Darren to go to jail for murder? It was a mistake that’s going to stay between you, Paul and me. I mean, you still love Darren, right?”

“Very much,” Melinda said, turning around to pluck another tissue from the back of the toilet. She held it to her nose. “I can’t believe this shit. I can’t believe what I’ve done.”

“Look, you love him. He loves you. Telling him the truth will only hurt him and screw everything up. Lead to really, really bad things; fracture friendships. Unless you plan on breaking up with him, this is one burden you have to bear alone.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Someone banged on the door. “What are you guys doing in there?”

“Just a sec,” Gwen said, then to Melinda, “Clean yourself up and come out.”

“What about tonight?”

“Don’t worry. Just be with Darren. Ignore Paul. Sorry, but you’ll have to hide your true feelings. Do it for Darren, okay?”

Melinda nodded. “I can do that.” She wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “See, I’m getting good at it.”

Chapter Eight

Paul waited in his car outside of Darren’s house. They were in charge of getting the alcohol for tonight’s gathering. Darren was well known throughout the community, so it was up to Paul to actually buy the booze. Dressed in a suit and slacks, Paul could pass for an early to mid twenty-year-old, and with his incredible, paid-a-lot-of-money-for-it fake ID, he never had a problem purchasing beer.

Paul had been avoiding Darren as much as possible ever since he slept with Melinda. He had hoped the girl wouldn’t squeal about their romp, but one never knew. Paul supposed if Darren had found out, he’d be dead now, so he felt pretty sure that the big guy didn’t know—unless he was the calculating sort, and was waiting to get Paul alone. If that was the case, there wasn’t much he could do about it. So for now, he needed to act like all was well.

Paul had Shay, one of the sexiest, coolest girls in school—hell, in all of town. He couldn’t have asked for a better chick, and if he had to admit it, he did love her. But he was young, good-looking, and had a super aggressive libido. In a few months, he was about to head into the great wide world of college, where parties and women were to be had almost every night. This is what he dreamed of. It would be his world, but only for a short time. Then the real world, the world filled with responsibilities—kids, car payments, bills and paying off school loans—would begin, along with other shit he didn’t want to think about, like a beer gut, losing his hair and the need to pop pills to get hard.

Paul shivered at the thoughts.

College life came before all that horrible shit. It was a place filled with people from all over the country. The experience would be epic; the quantity of eager, available women would be too numerous to count. He’d conquered high school pussy. College was next.

Paul had had no regrets—except one, but he’d taken care of that when he screwed Melinda. She was the only girl left on his list of Girls I Must Sleep With Before College. Well, there was Gwen, she was a hottie too, but there was no way he would get her to fuck him—drunk, stoned or whatever, and Jim had been his best friend for years.

Paul had wanted to get with Melinda since junior high school, but during those two years in seventh and eighth grade, he’d been too busy with other girls, and before you knew it, Darren had snatched her up when they hit high school, causing Paul to have to strike the girl from his list of women to bang.

Then Shay moved into town, and Paul quickly forgot about Melinda. Shay was perfect, and the two clicked immediately. She put up with his ogling other girls—as long as he didn’t touch. From Paul’s point of view, it was as long as he didn’t get caught, he could do as he pleased.

Shay was a wildcat in the sack, doing everything he wanted and more. Though a threesome would’ve been nice, she declined every time he brought it up. He’d only cheated on her a few times each year and with girls from other schools, usually ones he hooked up with at a cross-town party or bar—his incredible ID coming in handy. He wasn’t about to go sleeping around and hooking up with girls from the same school he and Shay went attended.

Senior year brought with it a desire though, a hunger. Shay was still as sexy as ever, but he wanted to be free to screw whomever he wanted. Hiding, sneaking, was okay while in high school, but in college, he was going to be a true ladies’ man. College would be a heavenly place. Eventually, he’d join a frat, then watch the hotties roll in, open their legs and mouths for him.

Melinda caught his eye again during the year. His desire for her had always been there, but the plethora of other girls, and Darren, had kept him in check. But Melinda was like a thing to be conquered. The one that got away, the regret he would have one day later in life. He needed to have her in his collection of conquests, a notch in his proverbial belt, and he needed to do it before he left for college.

As each day passed by, the need to have her grew. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, wondering what she was like in bed, with those curves, thick lips and perfectly shaped DD breasts. Once he went off to college, his chances with her would diminish. He just knew it.

But she loved Darren. There was no doubt about that. Those two would marry one day, he knew that too, because the big guy was a solid dude, a one-woman kind of guy. But that guy was also heading off to the pros one day, unless of course he suffered an injury, and then who knew what would happen. Melinda was staying in town, joining her mother and sister at the hair salon. Did she actually think Darren wouldn’t get scooped up by his future stardom and forget all about her? When he realized this, he realized he had a chance—slim, but a chance to break through her armor.

Then, one day, fate seemed to pay him a visit. He found himself at a party with Melinda, while Darren was away visiting his soon-to-be college. Shay had left the party early, complaining of menstrual cramps. Jim and Gwen had stayed in and Steve was working, like usual. Of their tight little group of friends, only he and Melinda remained at the party. He had thought this strange, for why would Melinda stay at the party alone. She and Paul hardly ever talked outside of being around Shay or the others.

He saw her sitting by herself on a king-sized bed in the Cohen’s house. The room was cast mostly in shadow, save for the hallway light that illuminated the part of the bed Melinda was sitting on, as if she were the star attraction of the place.

Paul strolled in and saw she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Melinda looked up, startled, tears streaming down her face. She was holding an almost-empty red plastic cup. She wiped at her cheeks with her arm. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Paul put his arm around her. “Hey, it’s me, Paul. Come on. Talk to me. Did someone hurt you?” He reached over with his other hand and wiped a fresh tear away.

“I…It’s…”

“You’re at a party,” he said. “You should be having fun. School’s almost over, then no more bullshit for us.”

“That’s just it,” she said, her voice cracking. “When school’s over…after the summer…Darren will be gone. I’ll be stuck here, alone. I’m going to lose him.”

Paul felt a twinge of sorrow for her, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel the need to grin. He bit his lip to keep from doing so. If he was truly a friend, he could help her, the right way, do Darren a solid, but the alcohol was flowing and the universe was laying out Melinda for him. To deny this situation would be like turning his back on fate.

He focused in on her, like a lion to its prey. He wanted nothing else at this very moment. He was a sleazebag, no doubt, but being devilish felt so right. Excitement, as if an electrical charge, coursed through him, his groin tingling. Emotions were going to overtake his ability to play this coolly. He needed to calm down, pace himself.

“If you want me to sugarcoat the situation, I can,” Paul said. “You know, lie to you. Tell you not to worry and that everything will be okay. I can do that, but I think you deserve to hear the truth, don’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Paul rose, walked over to the nightstand and turned on the light, then headed over to the door and closed it. He returned to the bed and sat next to her again. He put a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. He gave her his warmest, most sincere smile.

“Look,” he said, “you and Darren had a great thing. But the truth is he’s going away to school. It’s a big school, with a lot of people. He’s going to be bombarded with pressure, people, agents, coaches and wom—” Paul stopped himself, letting just enough of the word out to do its job. “He’s not going to have time for much besides school work and football. That’s it. And it won’t be because he doesn’t love you.” Paul shook his head. “It’ll be because his world has changed, and his priorities with it. He’s moving on to the next part of his life.”

Melinda’s eyes teared, and she buried her head in his chest. “I don’t want to be alone,” she cried, her voice muffled. “He said he’d be faithful while he was away. Said he wants to stay together…but I know…he’ll have so many girls throwing themselves at him. He’ll be busy all the time.”

“I’m going through the same thing with Shay,” he lied. “Publicly, we agreed it was a mutual split, what we both wanted, but truth be told, it’s only what she wanted.”

Paul reached down and pulled Melinda’s face even with his. “You deserve better. You deserve to be happy. Darren doesn’t appreciate you. Not like I would…if I had a girl like you, I’d never leave you behind.”

“Really?”

“I never told you this, but I had my eye on you back in junior high, way before Darren came along. I’ve always had a thing for you, and when I got to know you, I liked you even more. Don’t we both deserve to be happy?”

Paul locked eyes with Melinda. The connection was made. He moved in and their lips met. At first, she didn’t respond to his touch, but then her mouth opened and he slipped his tongue inside.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. They kissed passionately for a while. Paul ran a hand over her T-shirt to her right breast, and felt her nipple rise.

She was into this.

He started kissing her neck, then nibbled her ear. At the same time, he slid his hand under her bra and cupped her soft breast, feeling the hardness of her nipple prod his flesh. She moaned as he played with her.

They fell back onto the bed, kissing, feeling, exploring and breathing hard. The sheets were soft, inviting, and smooth against their skin. Paul couldn’t think about what was happening, if he did, he might mess this up, or back down from what he was about to do. If he hesitated at all, she might too, and then she’d stop him.

Paul removed his hand from her shirt and slid it into her jeans, beneath her panties. His fingers surfed over her mound and found her wetness. Using his middle finger, he slipped it in and out of her, moistening the area. Melinda moaned and tensed, kissing him harder.

Paul massaged her clit. Melinda pulled her mouth away from his, taking deep breaths as she moaned louder. He kissed her neck, watching her body contort with pleasure. She reached down and felt his hardness.

“I want you, Paul,” Melinda said. “I want you in me.”

Paul removed his hand from her pants, then slid off her jeans. She reached up and removed her shirt. With her bra still on, Paul pulled the right cup down, revealing a beautiful, voluptuous breast. Paul felt himself straining against his pants. He lowered his mouth to her breast and circled his tongue around the pink nipple. He gently flicked it. Melinda’s body jerked as she moaned.

From there, Paul went south, reached her panties and pulled them down with his teeth. He lifted her butt and slid them all the way off. With her legs open, he went in.

Melinda writhed and moaned in bliss, grabbing his head and shoving him into her. Finally, she exploded. Paul came up and saw that her bra had been removed, her DDs revealed. She stared at him. “I want you in me now.”

Paul slid off his pants and boxers, his shirt and socks and was on top of his friend’s girlfriend in skillful haste. He slid into her easily. She gripped his shoulders as he pushed himself deep, then relaxed as they moved as one.

The sex was slow and intense, then hot and porn-like in its motion and talk. The experience was better than Paul could have imagined, and he held out for as long as he was able, enjoying his final conquest.

Afterward, he fell asleep. When he awoke, Melinda was gone.

Paul felt conflicted, scared and satisfied all at the same time. Conflicted, because he’d betrayed his friends. The group was tight, had been for a long time. But he brushed that bullshit off. After high school, things changed. People went their separate ways. At least Paul was going some place. Maybe they’d all stay in touch over the years, see each other when one of them came back to town to visit relatives. But, then again, maybe not.

None of that would matter if Melinda kept her mouth shut. If she did talk, it still wouldn’t matter. Darren would be leaving, going pro one day. The big guy would forget all about the small people, including Melinda. Jim was Paul’s friend since childhood. They’d stay in touch for sure regardless of his betrayal. Paul wouldn’t lose him. The rest—Steve, Darren, Melinda, even Shay—could all go to hell.

On some level, Paul was a bit scared, too. The summer was far from over. If Melinda talked, he’d have to hide out until college started. He’d be friendless, girlfriendless, save Jim. Jim would meet up with him in secret, talk with him on the phone. Darren, now he was a hard one to figure. Paul had no idea what the guy might do. Go crazy and kill him? Darren was huge and a killer on the football field, but around people, in public, he was a teddy bear. Paul could only remember the kid getting into one fight all throughout high school, and that was when some townie punk harassed Melinda. But that couldn’t happen anymore. Darren wouldn’t risk his ride, not over some girl.

Above all else, the shining emotion coursing through Paul was satisfaction. He’d bedded the girl he had wanted since middle school. Saved the best for last? She definitely ranked among the best. She eluded him for so long. Now he could ride off into the college sunset, having accomplished his goal, and it was a night he wouldn’t forget. Melinda had been wild.

Sitting in the car, Paul almost couldn’t believe he’d done it, had his dick inside her, making her moan and ask for him to thrust harder, deeper. Paul grew hard just thinking about it. And now he was waiting for Melinda’s man to come outside and ride to the store. They’d all be hanging out later tonight, and Darren would be sitting there with his large arms and stupid grin, none the wiser. Every time Melinda kissed Darren, Paul would smirk, knowing he’d had her.

A small part of him felt rotten. Not for fucking her, but for avoiding her. But she needed to know it wasn’t going to happen again. Paul knew how good he was in the sack. Once a woman had him, they’d always want him. Melinda was a one-time thing, had to be, at least for now. Maybe when he returned to town from college, he’d see if she was up for something, as long as Darren was out of the picture. Maybe tonight, he’d pull her aside and talk to her, let her know he had nothing against her, just wanted a clean break. Hopefully, she’d understand. If not, oh well.

There was still the slight chance that Melinda had told someone. No, not someone. Gwen. Gwen was the one the girls confided in. She was the only one who could keep a secret. But if Gwen knew what had happened between him and Melinda, she would have given Paul the evil eye, said, or did something, letting him know what a dog he was.

Good, he thought, convinced his and Melinda’s secret was safe.

The door to Darren’s house swung open and the big guy came out. He galloped down the steps and headed over to the car.

Paul’s pulse quickened.

Darren had his usual big-ass grin spread across his face. The guy was always in a good mood it seemed. Unless Darren was a great actor, Paul was certain the kid didn’t know a thing. For now, it seemed they were still good friends, and tonight was going to be fun.

Darren opened the car door and got in. “My man, Paul,” he said, holding out a fist.

Paul bumped it. “Ready for tonight, or what?”

“Hell yeah. I need to relax and party a lot this summer. I got a long, difficult road ahead of eating healthy and working hard.”

“I hear the working hard part, buddy. Now, let’s go get some alcohol.”

Chapter Nine

Steve was getting ready to leave his house when Jim called.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Just confirming that we’ll have your presence with us tonight. You’re still coming, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then I don’t need to reveal the secret I’m keeping.”

Steve sighed. He’d taken off of work. He wasn’t going to miss the party and didn’t need his friend giving him a bonus for showing. He had a new outlook on life.

“What secret?” he asked, deciding to play along.

“Show up, and find out. Oh, and make sure you wear clean underwear. At least, that’s what I was told to tell you. See you at the lake.”

“What?” Steve waited for a reply. He looked at his phone and saw the blinking timer, the numerals no longer counting. He put the technological marvel into his pocket. He had no idea what Jim was talking about. Make sure you wear clean underwear—the clue was odd, making him think they were setting up Steve with a girl, maybe a hooker. Did his friends think he usually didn’t wear clean underwear? Lucky for him, he washed daily and always wore clean undergarments. He’d put on deodorant, brushed his teeth, used mouthwash too. Yup, he was all set for whatever was in store.

Steve was a low-key type of person, and didn’t care for the spotlight or attention, which included surprises. He hardly ever raised his hand in class, even when he knew the answer. He was a go-along-with-the-group sort of guy, a blender. And he liked it that way. Amongst his friends, he came out of his shell a little. He still wanted to know what they were all up to. Could they really be bringing a girl for him to hook up with? He wasn’t ugly, nor was he a stud, so what made them think he was going to score? They were just making sure he was prepared, he guessed. Or maybe they had all pitched in and really were bringing him a hooker, a real, paid for, woman of the night.

Yeah, genius, that’s what your friends did. They all chipped in and got you some possibly disease-ridden whore, because that’s what good friends do for those without a partner.

Looking at the clock on his nightstand, he saw that the time was 5:30 pm. His phone was charged, he had some cash in his pocket and…wait. Something was missing. The chips! He was in charge of bringing the chips, pretzels and any other snacks he thought everyone might want. There were none of those items in his house either, so he’d have to stop off at the store.

Steve did the shopping at home, his mom always too out of it, tired, or blitzed to even get up from the couch in front of the television. If his friends had wanted microwaveable dinners and canned goods, he had plenty of that crap. His mother lived off alcohol, but when she did eat, it was soups and TV dinners. Steve never bought his mom booze, but didn’t stop her from buying it herself, the local liquor store having a delivery service.

Steve drank, but only on the weekends after work and only when there was a party going on. He saw how his mother was and didn’t want to end up like her. For all he knew, alcoholism was in his genes, so limiting his drinking was a smart move. His friends knew better than to ask him to bring anything from his mother’s stash. The woman was a drunk, sloppy and careless, but she always knew when a bottle was missing, or if water had been added. He’d learned firsthand not to touch his mother’s supply.

One night, he’d been at a get-together with some of his ex’s friends—Jim and the gang not invited—and the alcohol supply was running low, the stores closed for the night. His ex suggested taking a bottle from his mother’s stash, and he complied, thinking she’d never know.

The next day, his mother came into his room. She went crazy, tossed his things around, broke his Xbox gaming system by stomping it to pieces, cut up her feet pretty badly too.

“You’re a thief and fucking liar,” she said, after he denied taking a bottle. “You’re just like your father, a no-good loser son of a bitch.” She grabbed the trophy he’d won for archery at the Black Rock Gaming Club and threw it through one of his closed windows. He found the trophy outside, broken in pieces. To make immediate matters worse, it was the middle of winter and he had to board up the window with plywood until he could afford to get the glass fixed.

She demanded the money for the bottle of alcohol he’d stolen, then went back downstairs. The next day, she acted like nothing had happened, only saying the window was his to fix, his punishment for stealing.

His mother was usually docile, as long as she wasn’t provoked, which seemed to revolve around her canned goods, TV dinners and the booze. Steve made sure he stayed away from those things.

Standing in his room now, he was ready to leave. He’d go downstairs, grab some dinner, then head over to Stack’s Grocery and grab some goodies.

On his way out of the room, he paused. The ring. For some reason, the family heirloom had just popped into his mind. He thought about what his mother used to tell him, before she had become a drunk.

When he turned twelve, his mother came to him and gave him the ring as a present. She said it had been in the family for decades. It was worn by anyone who went to the lake and said to protect against Margaret Rivers, the witch of the island.

As a boy, the tale had scared Steve, and when his mother had given him the ring, it frightened him even more. He wore it constantly until he met Kelly. After they started dating, she went down the list of things he needed to change about himself, starting with the ring.

“Yuck,” she said. “Leave that hideous thing in the box it came in, then bury it where no one will find it.”

Of course, he didn’t get rid of it, just tossed it into a drawer and forgot about it. The ring was a family heirloom, maybe valuable, though it didn’t look it, and had a great story to go along with it. Thinking back, which he was doing a lot of lately, he should’ve stood up to his ex, instead of taking her shit and being such a good little boy, as she put it.

Steve opened the top drawer of his dresser and fished around for the box containing the ring. Picking it up, he opened the container and removed the antique piece of jewelry, then slid the ring onto his middle finger, but not because he believed in the legend of Witch Island, or because it was what his mother had wanted—she’d lost all privileges when it came to that. He wore the ring because he wanted to. He’d always thought the thing was cool, like something found in a tomb or cave.

Staring at the ring, focusing on the strange emblem on the top, he said, “Fuck you, Kelly,” and smiled, feeling good about himself, something he hadn’t been able to do for a while.

Chapter Ten

Interlude

Salisbury Mills, 1904

Eshram Vogel was a protection specialist, a warden. People swore he had the ability to look into a person’s soul. His dark eyes had a spark to them, which caused most that looked upon him to glance away. He was muscular, and had a defined figure. His dark hair flowed to the middle of his back. The many necklaces and earrings he wore were made of rare jewels and blessed bones from various animals, each item a ward against specific evils. His muscular arms were tattooed with tribal markings, also protection against things that meant him harm. He stood over 6 feet 5 inches and was an imposing figure. He was often viewed as a heretic or savage, until he announced himself, and then people knew what he was.

He had been called in by various people, from all walks of life, including churches, synagogues, secret organizations, villages, only to name a few. Most of the specialists, witches, sorcerers, magic dealers, etc., were charlatans, performing their rituals for profit and nothing more, hoping to get out of town before the truth was found out.

Eshram was informed of Salisbury Mills’ situation, how a witch had been burned at the stake, but not properly vanquished. She had supposedly cursed the town, specifically damning the ones who put her to death. She threatened to return one day and take her vengeance on the kin of those who had wronged her.

Eshram wished to have had the chance to see where the witch lived, get a sense of her power, what he was up against—if she had been a witch at all—but the ignorant villagers had burned her abode to the ground.

Most of the time, when dealing with a supposed witch, it turned out that the accused had been innocent, Eshram finding no evidence of the sort. An innocent woman killed by ignorance and stupidity and ridiculous superstition. As with most things, the few evil creatures that were in the world made people wary of anyone who was different, whether by appearance or practice of religion.

When Eshram arrived in town, Salisbury Mills hadn’t received a full time replacement for its original priest. Father Donovan was still on call, serving to keep the town in order and assure the people that all was well.

Eshram had been informed that the witch’s husband’s body had burned to a crisp when the house came down. His remains were given a proper burial and set at the far end of the town cemetery. He asked Father Donovan why this had been done, for it wasn’t often that the mate of a witch was treated so well.

“Only the woman was of the Devil’s consortium,” Father Donovan said. “The man was weak, sickly even, and obviously under the witch’s spell. He was nothing but a living zombie, tormented to serve the witch and act as a loving husband.” The priest tapped the side of his head. “Messed him up inside, she did.”

Eshram smirked. “A man can be just as evil as a woman, Father, and a witch no doubt. They are called by another name—warlock.”

“It was the woman who possessed the power,” the priest insisted. “She is the one who shot and killed men when they simply wanted to talk to her. She was the one who cursed the town and its people.”

How little commoners understood, Eshram thought, shaking his head. Most witches were good people, harmless. They only wanted to be one with nature, and were simply misunderstood.

Eshram stayed in a room above McSorlee’s Pub. He was given food and drink, but not spoken to for more than necessary. The people of the town, although they were grateful for his presence, feared him, and wanted him gone as soon as possible.

When the moon was high and the townspeople were fast asleep in their homes, Eshram grabbed his bag of herbs and brick dust, snuck from his room, and made his way to the graveyard. It wasn’t difficult to find John Rivers’s grave marker, the dirt freshly turned before it.

He stood over the grave, held out his hand, palm down, and closed his eyes. His flesh did not grow warm, indicating that the man’s remains were not haunted, and that his spirit had moved on.

With the first task taken care of, Eshram returned to his room and went to sleep.

The following morning, as the sun breached the horizon, he met Father Donovan in front of the pub.

“Good morning, Father,” Eshram said.

“Morning,” the holy man returned. “But good? We’ll see about that once you’re done with the business at hand. The entire town is worried. People won’t go near the lake, and fishing is a large part of this community.”

“After we eat, we can get started,” Eshram said, rubbing his belly.

“Yes, of course.”

“I smelled something delicious being cooked when I awoke. As I came down the stairs, my mouth watered, and my stomach spoke of hunger. I beg to know what is cooking.”

“I’ve had eggs, bacon, oatmeal and coffee prepared for you.”

“You won’t be joining me then?” Eshram asked, knowing the man would not dine with him. Almost no one ever did when he was among traditional Westerners. He was needed and paid by them, but treated as if diseased. He found this comical, yet sad.

“Err,” the holy man said. “No, no.” He held out a hand, then smiled. “I have to see to something before we set off for the island. Let’s say we meet here at the next chime of the church bell?”

“I shall eagerly await your return.”

Though expected, Eshram never got used to how people relied on his services, yet were afraid of him, found him unsettling, as he’d been told once.

Eshram sat at the bar, his salivary glands pumping away as the aroma of food filled the air. The barkeep set down a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a rare and fine drink for these parts. The food and coffee arrived soon thereafter.

“My name’s Belvin Winbrook,” the barkeep said, with a smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” He was a burly man with a patch over his left eye, and didn’t look the least bit bothered by Eshram’s presence.

“No, thank you. Everything looks delicious.”

“I don’t mean to be a pest,” Belvin said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “but do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Eshram was somewhat surprised by the man—not the question, but the fact that the man wanted to do more than simply serve him and be gone.

“Not at all,” Eshram said, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“How is it you do what you do?”

This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a question. He figured most people were curious, but it was rare that anyone bothered to speak to him. He had no idea why he possessed the abilities he had, or why the spells worked when his kind practiced them, while with ordinary folk, spells were nothing more than superstitious activities and words. The spells Eshram practiced he had learned from his father and mother. The spells had been passed down by his grandparents, who also learned from their parents. One day, when he had a son, he would teach the boy the ways of his people.

“I don’t know,” Eshram said, answering honestly. “I was simply born this way, as my parents, brothers and sisters were too, though not all take to going to the route of a Spirit Warden. The ways of the West are powerful—money and fame—and very much catch the eye of all humans.”

“And you can sense true evil?”

“In a living or dead body, yes.”

“Could you take a look at my wife then?” Belvin asked with a straight face, then burst into laughter.

Eshram nearly choked on his food, he laughed so hard.

“All kidding aside,” Belvin said, “I’m curious about such things.”

Eshram finished chewing before he spoke, then wiped his mouth and said, “When I’m near evil, I can sense it.” He held up his hands. “My palms grow warm, sometimes hot. Spells and charms have been made and blessed by my people, passed down through the ages. It’s my job to take care of such matters, like the one you’ve got here in town. My people believe they are just one of the many forces put on the good earth to battle evil.”

Belvin looked to his right and left, then leaned in. “To be honest, I never had a problem with the Riverses. They seemed like nice people, even the missus. Then again, I guess evil can do that, you know, act good and all.”

“Evil comes in all forms and can be tricky,” Eshram said, nodding. “It’s why I’ve been brought in, to make sure everything is okay, and if it’s not, then I will make it so.”

The barkeep stood. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Thanks for chatting with me.”

“It was a pleasure.”

Maybe there was hope for the world, that one day his kind, and people of all kinds would be accepted and welcomed amongst each other. Eshram was glad for the talk, especially for hearing that not everyone had thought the woman a witch.

As Eshram upended the last of his second cup of coffee, the church bell rang. He thanked Belvin before leaving and asked him to tell the cook how wonderful the food was.

He met Father Donovan outside. Together, they traveled to the lake where a small rowboat waited. A shovel rested at the bow. Eshram placed his satchel inside the craft, then motioned for the priest to step into the boat, but the man didn’t move, only stared down the shore, in what Eshram could only guess was the direction of the island.

“Father? Are you not coming with me?”

“Of course I am,” the man said, snapping back to the present. “I have a job to do as well, to place a blessing on the land and inform the people that all is well.”

“That you do. Your kind are powerful, don’t forget that, Father.”

The man nodded, then stepped into the boat. Eshram pushed the craft into the water and jumped aboard.

Priests were involved in many things when it came to battling evil—exorcisms and the blessing of artifacts at the forefront. For some reason, they didn’t know much about dealing with witches, or non-Christian evils. And after Eshram was done, a blessing on the land couldn’t hurt.

Eshram did the rowing.

Neither man spoke, but Eshram saw fear in the priest’s eyes. Halfway there, the Father produced a small leather-bound book from his robes and silently read from it. Father Donovan’s fear seemed to vanish—not completely, but he looked much more grounded.

Finally, they reached the island, the boat running aground. Eshram hopped out and pulled the boat farther onto land. He grabbed his satchel and waited for the priest. The holy man closed his Good Book, stuffed it back into his robe and stepped out, then straightened his robe.

“Father, are you ready?” Eshram asked. “I have some ideas what we may or may not encounter, but we must remain vigilant.”

“God is with us,” the priest said. “I’ve read passages and said prayers. We are as protected as we need to be. Combined with your gifts, we shall be victorious in vanquishing and setting the witch’s curse back to Hell with her.”

Eshram didn’t agree with everything the man said, but he was glad to see his convictions.

They made their way through the thick brush, following the vague path, made more obvious by the witch’s executioners a few nights ago. Briars and sticker bushes snagged at their clothing, the island’s poor attempt at keeping them from entering it.

Eshram heard not a bird or grasshopper, saw no tracks from raccoons, possums, or squirrels. As a woodsman, he could easily spot such things, and even an island as small as this would have plenty of life on it.

Three days had passed since Margaret Rivers was put to death. Word had reached him quickly. He hadn’t been but a day’s ride north, having recently finished up taking care of a demon in the city of Poughkeepsie. Time was always of the essence when dealing with the supernatural. A recently deceased witch, bent on revenge, could easily hold onto its remains, creep into its surroundings, as witches had a great affinity to the earth and its children. The Good Mother took no sides. She was a neutral, nature-abiding entity that cared not what the dead did, whether they moved on or stayed, but granted her worshipers with their desires if she saw fit to do so.

Most witches were good people, and when they died, whether wrongly or not, they moved on. But anger was a great emotion, one that could transcend death and corrupt the soul. Hopefully, Margaret Rivers proved to be like her husband, and had moved on, but Eshram didn’t like the signs he was witnessing.

They came to a clearing at the center of the island. The grass was brown and brittle, crumbling under their footfalls. The tree line was beginning to die as well, half the trees no longer flourishing with fine greenery, but fading to yellow. The lack of animal presence, the dead grasses and dying trees were all negative signs. Eshram feared that the witch had not moved on, but even worse, that she was an extremely angry and powerful spirit. Corrupted energies usually took time to manifest; he couldn’t believe how quickly they had spread, killing all surrounding plant and wildlife.

Eshram hurried to the witch’s stake, an iron pole singed with charred remains. He could still smell the horrendous odor of scorched flesh. The ground was blackened, save a six-foot by four-foot rectangle of freshly churned earth that extended from the pole. His body grew immediately warm. There was no need to hold his palms over the burial site. There was indeed an evil presence here.

“The witch’s spirit hasn’t moved on,” he said.

Eshram reached into his satchel and removed a small linen bag filled with various herbs, salt and brick dust. He sprinkled the concoction around the area. Smoke seeped from the soil in protest.

Father Donovan was reading aloud from his Bible.

Whoever you were, Margaret Rivers, Eshram thought, you are that person no more. He reached into his bag again and withdrew a handful of iron spikes, each one engraved with binding runes. Using only his hands, he hammered the railroad-like spikes into the soil around the grave. The heads of the spikes glowed orange-red, absorbing the wickedness that was the witch, holding her at bay.

Father Donovan had stopped reading.

“We can use all the spiritual power we can get, Father,” Eshram said. “Do not stop your prayers.”

The priest began reading aloud again.

Eshram removed a large vial containing a mixture of red brick dust, witch hazel and saffron, and poured a line of the stuff from spike head to spike head until all were connected. The orange-red glow ceased.

“That should hold her for a long time, but keep up the prayers for now until we are finished here. I’ve never dealt with such a powerful spirit before.”

Winds kicked up, bringing a thick fog into the area that refused to disperse. The witch’s essence had already spread into the island. How much, Eshram did not know, but the devil’s blockade that he had set around her grave would severely limit her power. He only hoped he’d be able to get to her bones.

Eshram’s body was covered with sweat. His flesh had never grown so hot when dealing with a witch. He feared he would not be able to completely eradicate the spirit as he had hoped, but he would try.

With demons, priests were very helpful, aiding in the ritual to vanquish the evil creatures, but witches were a whole different matter. He feared that her hate was too strong to banish her completely, and that only time and solitude would allow this to happen. But he would try, and the priest would help him.

Eshram grabbed the shovel and dug. His clothes were soaked through by the time he reached the cloth sack that held Margaret Rivers’s bones. Why the villagers had dug a full-length grave for only a bag full of the witch’s remains, he did not know. Most times when dealing with the damned or something unholy, a shallow grave was customary. He never knew why, except in the event the body needed to be unearthed again.

Lying on his stomach, he reached into the hole, untied the cloth sack and opened it, revealing a charred skull, part of a hip, femur and hand, with the rest of the bones below. Eshram recited a protection spell from memory, having memorized all the spells in his arsenal by the age of thirteen, and grabbed the femur, lifting it out of the ground.

Hot pain radiated up his arm, curling around his bones like a fiery serpent. He hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did, and bit down, fighting against the need to cry out.

Kill you, a raspy voice said. You will die a miserable, agonizing death. I will flay the flesh from your bones, pluck out your liver and devour your tongue while you scream. Take the knife. Gut yourself. Then consume your entrails until they are gone. You will not die until I have made you suffer greatly.

Eshram found himself lying on his side, one hand on the femur, the other holding his own knife to his abdomen. He wanted to obey the voice and plunge the blade into his flesh, see his innards pulled out of him by his own hand. He had stopped reciting, but heard the priest’s prayers, then continued with his own. Hearing the words of his ancestors, he broke the witch’s hold.

Eshram dropped the leg bone in disgust. The voice ceased. He was in complete control of himself again, but he also felt an overwhelming sadness fall over him, a hollowness, as if the witch had taken something from him. He wanted to crawl away, curl up somewhere and cry.

Through it all, Eshram recited the spell. He remembered why he was here. Remembered his training, his upbringing. He had a duty to perform, to finish.

Mustering up his fortitude, knowing there was much more pain to come, he pulled out a small tin box from his bag, opened it and set it on the ground. Next, he held onto the witch’s femur and began slicing off slivers of bone. The raspy voice returned, demanding that he stop, promising pain and death, demanding that he pick up the femur and jam it into his eye. But Eshram spoke the spell with determination, relying on his blessed jewelry to get him through the arduous task.

The hot pain in his arm spread into his head. His clothes were dripping with sweat. His thoughts were riddled with torment, flesh melting off of bones, a woman, Margaret, watching her beloved perish, herself feeling the agony of being burned to death, watching her executioners’ faces glow with wickedness.

Then he saw his mother, strung up and left for all to see, a heathen and daughter of Satan. Nails had been driven into her chest, fingers bent at awkward angles from having been twisted and broken, teeth missing, hair yanked out, revealing a bloody scalp, and her clothes dripping with water from having been drowned in the lake.

Eshram was a little boy, standing on the dirt road that led into town, staring up at his dead mother. The taut rope creaked like an old door as she swayed in the gentle breeze. His mother’s eyelids were open, revealing empty, pulpous sockets of gore. Blood trailed down her cheeks, her face decorated in horrific clown-like fashion. Even though his mother had no eyes with which to see, Eshram felt her gaze upon him. Then she raised an arm and pointed at him, the broken bones of her finger crackling back into place.

“You,” she said. “You did this to me.”

“No,” he screamed, backing away, his breath caught in his chest. This was all too much.

Eshram picked up Margaret’s femur, broke the bone in two, then shoved a jagged end into his left eye. The sphere exploded with ease. Blood and ocular fluids spewed forth. Eshram screamed, returning to the present, no longer the boy watching his mother hang.

The witch had found his most wretched memories—the time he found his mother hanging from a tree—then distorted it, driving him mad. Father Donovan was calling to him, asking what happened. The man sounded hysterical.

Looking down, Eshram saw both pieces of the witch’s bone. His right eye pained him and he knew what he had done. He saw the slivers of bone. He’d managed to carve off five pieces before the witch seized him. Good, he thought. Five would have to be enough.

With the speed of a jackrabbit, he tossed the two halves of femur back into the bag, then pulled the drawstring closed as blood continued to leak from his destroyed eye. Using his arms, he bulldozed the dirt back into the hole, filling it completely. He had thought about salting the bones, but feared doing so might further enrage her, possibly free her from her prison. He couldn’t take that chance, instead choosing to bind her where she lay. Something as powerful and as evil as her needed to be contained, rather than take the chance of freeing her. If her condemners had done one thing properly, it was bringing her to the island. The water would act as a natural barrier, the witch’s spirit unable to cross unless she was at full power and possessing a human body.

Eshram scooped up the slivers of bone and tossed them into the small tin box he had laid out, then returned the container to his satchel.

He turned, surprised to see the priest still standing there, though no longer reading from the Bible, but reciting a prayer from memory as his eyes were closed. He approached the man, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Father.”

The priest jumped, nearly falling over. He let out a gasp. “Your eye…”

“It is time to leave this place.” The priest nodded and followed Eshram through the forest.

Eshram tore the sleeve from his inner shirt and wrapped it around his head, covering the eye socket. He was beyond tired, drained of all but the desire to finish the quest. He had done a good thing by constructing the devil’s blockade and trapping the witch. For now, the situation was settled. Hopefully over time, it would end.

When they reached the boat, Father Donovan helped Eshram push the craft into the water, then both men crawled in. Too exhausted to move, Eshram lay on his back while the priest rowed.

“What happened back there?” Father Donovan asked.

“Pure evil. The witch’s spirit is the most powerful, corrupted thing I have gone up against.”

“So she was a witch,” Father Donovan said, more to himself than to Eshram. “Father O’Brady had been a good man, but under the witch’s spell.”

Eshram didn’t necessarily agree with the holy man’s assessment. The pain and anguish he felt when the witch had entered him wasn’t derived from evil, for he knew evil, but from something even more powerful—love. The pain was fresh, overwhelming. That kind of heartache fractured souls, broke spirits. He supposed Donovan could be correct and Father O’Brady had been spelled, but more likely Margaret had been a good woman, and Father O’Brady saw this, but the misunderstandings of ignorant people caused innocent people to die. The truth may never be revealed in full, but it was Eshram’s opinion that Margaret Rivers had been a good, kind-hearted individual with a love so strong that it tore her soul into pieces.

When the boat reached land, Eshram told the priest to take him to Horg Grodan, the town’s blacksmith.

“But your eye, your wounds—”

“They’ll be time to tend to them later.” At least the physical ones, he thought.

The witch had taken something from him, damaged him, and he had no idea to what extent. His body felt as if it had been trampled by horses, but it was his mind that felt like it might never fully recover.

When they reached the blacksmith’s shop, Eshram handed an unnerved Horg the designs to a ring, one he’d had made before for similar circumstances.

“I need five,” Eshram said.

The large man went to work.

Eshram sat in a rickety wooden chair within the heat-filled shop.

“You need a doctor,” Father Donovan said.

“I shall see one when the task at hand is completed,” he lied. He would tend to his eye later, on his own, but it was his soul that he wanted healed more than anything. Enough time had passed. He should have recovered spiritually by now, but his mind was still reeling with the horrible images the witch had shown him. Every blink of his eye brought with it a flash of blood, of suffering.

The only other time in his life when he felt such hollowness and despair was when he found his dead mother’s corpse hanging from the tree. That pain had lasted a long time, and had never fully left him. But he’d known why. A child losing a parent was as painful a thing as one could suffer. Depression and hopelessness was natural. What he was feeling now wasn’t natural. The witch had clearly done something, left a piece of herself inside him, a mark on his soul. He might never recover, and he could never go back to that island, just like he could never go back to the place where his mother was hanged.

Truth be told, he didn’t care about the townspeople anymore. In fact, he didn’t find himself caring about much of anything. And then, he knew. The witch had ripped the love of living from him, that part of his soul gone forever. A veil of gloom filled that void, and if it hadn’t been for his training, the ingraining of what he must do, he’d surely be dead, or at least have moved on, leaving the villagers on their own. He couldn’t help but feel they all deserved to suffer. They’d falsely killed a woman and her husband. Where was the justice? Why was he choosing to save the town?

Eshram closed his eyes and listened to the crackling of flame and the hammering of iron. He concentrated on his training, on his purpose, on his oath and his ancestors. It was his sworn duty to protect people against all forms of evil, and regardless of the type of good person Margaret Rivers had been, she was not that anymore.

As the rings neared completion, Eshram opened the tin box containing the slivers of bone and ground them into dust using a six-inch steel rod. He mixed in brick dust and minced herbs. When the rings were complete, the tops hollowed squares about a quarter of an inch thick, he poured some of the concoction into each ring, then had the blacksmith seal a lid over each one and carve a line down the middle with a U shape about midway through it. The design resembled a pitchfork, and was the symbol of his clan. Eshram then placed a powerful ward of protection over the rings, making the wearer unable to be harmed by the witch.

Eshram was finished. His body was numb, his eye socket barely hurting him. This would be his last job. He was young, far from finished on the outside, but his will was dying.

“Give these to the five individuals who were present during the witch’s burning,” Eshram said to Father Donovan and handed the man the rings.

“What are they for?”

“Protection.”

“But I thought you vanquished the witch’s spirit?”

Eshram shook his head. “No. I could not. She was too powerful. But I have done the next best thing and trapped her there. Hopefully, over time, being alone, and one with the elements, she will move on from this world.” Eshram put a hand on the priest and looked him square in the eyes.

“But for this to happen,” he continued, “the island must remain untouched by human hands. The witch needs to see that she will not have her revenge, and that remaining here will only keep her from moving on. Her anger must be allowed to subside.”

Eshram removed his hand from the priest. He saw that the blacksmith was watching, listening. “It is good for you to hear this, my friend. The island is a cursed place. Right now, the witch is powerful, and she wants you all dead, but even more than that, she wants those directly responsible for her death. I’ve created these rings for those five to wear whenever they go to the lake. I do not know how much influence she has over the island, but it is strong. She cannot leave there, not on her own, so it is imperative that no one go there. Keep the rings in the families of those original five, for the witch will gladly take vengeance on the ancestors of her killers.

“What about the other people of the town?” the blacksmith asked, clearly frightened.

“The good Father Donovan will pray for them. As long as they stay away from the island, they will be fine. Best bet is for them to leave the area. Now, I must go.”

Eshram turned and walked out of the shop.

“Where are you going?” the priest asked.

“Home.”

By the time Eshram returned to Scotland, his bones ached tremendously. Walking was a chore, his body hunched like an old man’s. His once rich, dark flowing hair was brittle and white. Fellow villagers and family members barely recognized him, save for the necklaces, rings and items he wore and carried.

Eshram was stripped of his wares, his flesh said to have been tainted by evil. Though his people loved him, appreciated what he had done, he could not remain amongst them, and was given the choice to burn or leave forever.

Eshram left.

A short distance from the village, he was met by a fellow spiritualist. The man held a dagger.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “but you know this is our way.”

Eshram nodded. “Thank you.” He knew leaving was not an option, but neither was accepting death so easily, not if he wanted his soul to be reborn and returned to his tribe so that he might again walk the earth and battle evil.

The man laid a hand on Eshram’s right shoulder. “I do this,” he said, “with a heavy heart.”

Eshram closed his eyes and felt the sting of the blade as it pierced his sternum and punctured his heart.

Chapter Eleven

Jim stopped off at the cemetery on his way to the lake. He should’ve paid his brother’s grave a visit right after school, but he wanted to get home. He drove slowly along the gravel road, the crunch and pop of the small stones seeming thunderous in the still, early evening. He crested a small hill and saw Marty, one of the groundskeepers, pulling weeds from along the fence. The man looked up, waved, then went back to his business.

Jim didn’t see any other cars or people. The graveyard was such a peaceful place, and he wondered why more individuals didn’t visit just to have a place to be alone and relax, listen to the nothingness of it all. Sure, there were hundreds of corpses under the ground, but if one ignored that fact, which was a big one, the topside was beautiful. Maybe it was because his brother was buried here, but he liked to bring a bottle of soda or water and sit under one of the huge trees and read in the shade. There was very little in the way of distraction, especially at the back of the property, unless lawn work was being done. He supposed his thinking might seem odd to others, but so what?

He drove as close as he could get to his brother’s marker, then killed the engine and got out. Sadness always hit him when he walked up the lawn.

When he reached his brother’s resting place, he stood, taking a moment.

“Greg, it’s me,” he said, feeling a little silly. Of course his brother knew it was him. He sighed and felt his heart grow heavy.

“I’m going to the lake tonight. I’m sure you know that already too, but it feels good to talk about it.” He looked at the ring on his finger. “I’ve got this. It’s supposed to protect me and stuff, but I don’t know… Truth is, I’m scared.” He laughed.

“I wish you had been wearing it on that night. Maybe none of this would have happened.” He was rambling now. “I miss you, man. And I’m going to that island to prove a point. You know how much I looked up to you, but I can’t keep blaming the island for what happened to you. You were drunk and made a mistake.”

Jim paused, feeling his throat tighten. He cleared it and took a breath.

“If you don’t think it’s a good idea, please, send me a sign or something.” He couldn’t believe he had said that. He must be really afraid to visit the island. He’d asked for signs over the years, for various things, and had never received one, or if he had, he’d never realized it.

If the dead could hear the living, it seemed to be a one-way thing. There were times though when he thought his brother was with him, especially when he visited his grave. The area around it seemed abuzz with energy. Then other times, like today, he felt nothing, like he was just talking to the stone in front of him. He supposed, like the living, the dead weren’t always home or listening. Maybe Greg was out swimming in a lake in heaven with his friends. Jim liked to think that was the case.

He sat and talked some more, remembering the good times he and Greg had, the family outings, going to the movies, the amusement parks and other fun stuff. By the time he was ready to leave, the sun getting lower, he had tears down his face.

Standing, he wiped at his face. He kissed his fingers, then touched the grave marker. “Take care, man. I’ll be back again soon. Love you.” He walked back to the car and sat for a few minutes, then turned on the radio and found a song to get him in a better mood. He didn’t want to show up looking all sad, and he knew Greg would want him to have a good time.

Jim parked his car alongside Lake Road and waited. The others showed up almost within seconds of each other, except for Steve. They parked their cars behind Jim’s, making sure to pull off the road as far as possible. Lake Road was a narrow, winding patch of pavement that ran along one side of Beaverdam Lake.

Everyone grabbed their supplies and headed down the small trail that led to where residents kept their rowboats and canoes, the various crafts simply turned upside down and chained to a tree. The locks were opened, and the canoes were flipped over.

Jim’s parents had owned two canoes, but after Greg’s accident, the canoes were put up for sale. Neither his mother nor father wanted anything to do with the lake. When Jim found out, he had Shay make them an offer—he and his friends wanting to keep the canoes for themselves. Jim gave Shay the money for one. Shay kept the other for herself.

This is it, Jim thought, staring at the canoes. He was about to face one of his biggest fears. He touched the ring on his finger, feeling no comfort from it. Usually, when he went out on the lake, he stayed away from the island, his ring giving him a sense of security, but not today.

Jim reminded himself that he needed to do this, show himself that his brother’s drowning was a foolish endeavor, an accident, and not the supernatural doings of a spirit bent on vengeance.

Still, with all the logic going on in his head, he was afraid. It wasn’t only going to the island, but spending time there, a full night, in fact. He would have his love, Gwen, there with him, along with his best friends. Hopefully, after being on the island for a while, watching his friends laugh and joke and get wasted, he’d realize he could relax and have a good time.

“You okay, sweetie?” Gwen asked, rubbing his arm.

Jim nodded. “Yeah, fine.” He smiled. “Why?”

“You were staring into space.”

“Oh, just thinking, you know. I’ll be fine.” He kissed her on the forehead.

Paul and Darren went back up for the beer-filled cooler, now that the boats were ready to go, and loaded it into one of the canoes.

“Where’s Steve?” Julie asked.

“I don’t know,” Jim said, “but I spoke to him. He’s coming.”

“Damn right I’m coming,” Steve’s voice said from the trail. A moment later, he stepped onto the beach area. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Jim smiled, glad and relieved his friend had showed up.

Steve took everyone in, seeing that all his friends were there, then focused last on Julie, who was looking at him and grinning.

Damn, she looks beautiful, he thought.

His heart fluttered. His mind dove into the past to when they had first met. As much as he loved Kelly, or thought he did, he felt an immediate attraction toward Julie. Her beautiful green eyes, silky red hair and freckles around her noise, not to mention her smoking body in a bikini. Maybe his meeting her at Shay’s party last year was fate giving him a preview, or a way to wake him up and let him know Kelly wasn’t right for him. He didn’t listen at the time. He was faithful, somewhat under Kelly’s abusive spell. But that was the past, now he was ready for a real relationship with a real woman. There were other fish in the sea—that was how the saying went, and for good reason. He didn’t like to think of it like that, but on some level, the saying was true—unless there was an undying love involved. That was something you could not replace or simply find more of, unless a person found another member of the soul pool they were part of.

There were billions of people on the planet. Steve believed that particular individuals were meant to be with each other, whether it be true love or as friends. It explained the “we just gelled” scenario, or that feeling of knowing someone after just meeting them. With true love, Steve believed that there was no one soul mate, but a pool of people whose souls could mate. The bottom line—Steve didn’t want a fish, he wanted a soul mate.

Normally shy, Steve decided to be bold. This afternoon’s experience, along with his recent breakup from Kelly, then add in the way his mother was, and he was finished with being the quiet, reserved guy. Nothing in life was guaranteed, and he didn’t need to keep himself reined in. There were far more things to be nervous about than talking to a girl he was attracted to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said.

“Well, I am,” Julie said, fidgeting. She looked at her feet, then glanced up at him. “And…I knew you’d be here.”

“Aw,” Paul said. “Young love.”

Steve felt his face redden, which normally would have bothered and embarrassed him, but this time he didn’t allow it to.

“Shut the fuck up, Paul,” Gwen said harshly. She thought she could handle hanging around with him, but now that he was in her presence, she wanted to punch him in the face.

“Damn,” Paul said, shrugging. “I was just playing.”

Gwen realized she’d overreacted and didn’t know what to say. She turned to Jim and quickly changed the subject. “We’re all here. What do you say we get going and start this shindig?”

“Okay, everyone,” Jim said. “Make sure you haven’t forgotten anything, or you’ll be rowing your ass back alone for it.”

Everyone climbed into the canoes. Jim, Gwen, Shay and Paul were in one boat, while Darren, Melinda, Steve and Julie were in the other.

“It’s party time!” Paul yelled as they set off for the island. He leaned forward and wrapped Shay in a hug, squeezing her tits. Shay jumped and the canoe rocked.

“Watch it or you’ll make us tip over,” Gwen snapped.

“Chill, Gwen,” Paul said. “We’re in a canoe, not a boat. These things are almost impossible to flip.”

“Well almost isn’t never, so wait until you’re alone if you want to act like an asshole.”

“Whoa,” Paul said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Did I do something to piss you off?”

Yes, you piece of shit, Gwen thought. You almost fucked up our little group. Brought down friendships. Oh, how she wanted to kick him in the face and throw him overboard, then tell Shay everything, and watch Darren pummel him when he made it to shore.

“No, why?” Gwen said, changing her tone.

“Cause you’re being a bitch,” Shay said, answering for Paul.

Gwen’s mouth dropped open. Fury flared in her bones. She stared at Shay, the words that would damage all their friendships on the tip of her tongue. If only Shay knew the truth. What would her friend think then? Shay wouldn’t think she was acting like a bitch anymore, would she? Then again, the crazy girl might not care that much. Shay and Paul were going to be done soon, off to separate parts of the country. There was no way Gwen would say anything, but it sure felt like she should, just to shut Paul up if nothing else.

But she knew who would care. Darren, even though he probably would be too busy to do the whole long-distance relationship thing with Melinda, besides the fact that women would be throwing themselves at him.

None of that mattered now, she knew. Living in the present meant that Shay and Paul and Melinda and Darren were still couples, still friends.

“If anyone’s a bitch,” Gwen said, forcing a chuckle as she said it, “it’s you, Shay.”

Shay’s face was deadpan. Gwen held onto her smile, staring at her friend, then Shay broke into laughter.

“Don’t you know it,” Shay said, then reached out and high-fived Gwen.

Gwen looked past Shay and caught Paul eyeing her. He looked quizzically at her.

“What?” she asked, putting her chin up and shrugging. “Can’t take another bitch in your life?”

“No, I can’t.” Paul’s tone was cold. He continued to stare at Gwen, who met his eyes unblinkingly. She refused to look away, letting him know he wasn’t the leader of the pack. Finally, he smirked, then leaned forward again and hugged Shay from behind. “Only room for one bitch in my life.”

The canoes cut through the water with ease, as if gliding over nothing but air. The clear sky above was a welcomed sight, and the complete opposite of how Jim was feeling. He continued to row, Gwen taking up the task too, while Shay and Paul sat back, relaxing in the beautiful sunshine.

The other canoe pulled even with them. “Race you to the island,” Darren said, then he and Steve rowed faster, and pulled ahead.

Jim had no desire to get there any quicker, and was trying to take in the beauty of the day. He hoped Gwen felt the same and was in no rush.

“Screw that,” Paul said, as if right on cue. “No point in breaking into a sweat and tiring ourselves out. We all need our energy for tonight. Am I right, Jimbo?”

“Easy for you to say, you aren’t rowing,” Gwen said.

Jim turned around and caught sight of Gwen, her face twisted into a sneer of disgust. He wondered what was going on with her and decided to ask her when they arrived on the island. Maybe Paul had done something to piss her off. Whatever was going on, he was grateful Gwen didn’t want to race.

Paul shook his head in response to Gwen. “It’s way too nice of a day to get all worked up, and besides, you and Jim are doing a great job.”

Jim saw Gwen turn red. Hang on, babe, he thought. Don’t do or say anything yet.

“You’re such a naughty boy, aren’t you?” Shay said to Paul.

Gwen thought she might gag. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the night, save Paul leaving. Just hearing his voice was driving her mad. Paul and Jim had been friends for years. Thank goodness Paul and he weren’t going to the same colleges. All she had to do was grin and bear it for the night, then on occasion, during the summer when they got together. She could do that.

Jim and Paul were very different. Paul’s reputation had been the reason Gwen had been hesitant to date Jim. Until Shay, Paul had been a pig. She’d made Jim wait just over a month before sleeping with him. Yeah, he wanted to have sex from the start—what guy didn’t—but he’d been patient and understanding. She saw right away that Jim was a good guy, but she knew guys could be deceiving, simply looking to score, then move on to the next girl.

Paul could be okay at times, but if it wasn’t for the guy being Jim’s best friend, and Shay’s boyfriend, she didn’t think she’d talk to him.

Sitting there, rowing, building up a small sweat, her shirt sticking to her back, she grew more furious with Paul. The prick hadn’t even offered to row, and acted like an asshole when it was brought up—you and Jim are doing a great job. And Shay, rich, spoiled Shay. Yeah, they were best friends, but once in a while the girl got on her nerves, like today. Shay could’ve made Paul row, threatened to withhold sex for tonight. It might not have worked, but she should’ve tried. But she was too much like Paul—stuck up, pompous at times, and acted like the world was hers. If her man didn’t want to row, then screw it, let someone else do it. Shay was a different person when Paul was around, always thinking about herself, him and having fun. If some kind of work was involved, then she wasn’t, unless it was something she enjoyed, like sex, lifting a beer can to her mouth or digging in the dirt with her archaeological tools. Gwen still couldn’t believe her prissy friend loved playing in the dirt, and was going to college to master it.

And what further annoyed Gwen was that Paul had been correct. She did enjoy canoeing, not just the cruising part, but the rowing too. The workout felt good. But still, the asshole should’ve offered.

Gwen forced the idiot from her mind, hoping he didn’t piss her off so much that she lost her cool and spilled the beans about Paul’s sleeping with Melinda. No, she wouldn’t do that, no matter how upset she might become.

She focused on Jim, watching him row, his sexy arm muscles bulging beneath his T-shirt. Then she saw the island come into view, getting larger as they neared it. She was really looking forward to tonight, and to getting Jim alone, but every time Paul spoke or laughed, it was like hearing nails on a chalkboard.

“Look, we’re almost there,” Shay said, pointing.

Jim’s stomach felt like it knotted up. With each row of the oar, his dread grew. Anxiety reared its ugly head, causing it to seem like he couldn’t catch his breath. No, he wasn’t doing this here, wasn’t having a panic attack. He hadn’t had one in a while.

He practiced his breathing exercises and reminded himself that what he was feeling was an illusion. He wasn’t really in danger. His body was simply reacting to the situation in a fight-or-flight response. Of course, his mind begged for flight, or rather begged him to turn the canoe around.

Jim continued on, fighting against himself. He forced a smile and looked across the water at the mainland’s shoreline. It wasn’t too far away. A quarter mile maybe. If he absolutely had to, he could take the canoe there and that would be that. He didn’t have to stay on the island. Gwen would understand. Hell, they all would.

He looked at the ring on his hand and imagined it was special, then managed to gain a small amount of security from it by telling himself that he was safe with it on. He slowly began to feel better.

Except now he felt silly, like a little kid believing in some magical toy. Damn, his mind was really wound tight, screwing with him. He’d been good at hiding his true feelings. Had practiced it after his brother’s death, not wanting people to see how much he was hurting. Today, with his friends, including Gwen, was no different. He was putting up a great front.

No matter how much he focused on having a good time, on being with his close friends, the woman he loved, he couldn’t fully stop thinking about the negative stuff—Greg’s drowning, his grandparents’ and parents’ warnings, the legend itself. How had it started and why?

Staring at the ring, he wondered if he should have kept it at all. The thing was a constant reminder of his fears and nightmares. It kept the superstition alive, gave it credence. No, he was glad he kept it. It could only help, right? It felt good to have it. He was probably being childish, but so what? Whatever helped, helped.

He wanted to knock himself in the head. The fucking island, Witch Island, wasn’t cursed. People had been there and survived, hadn’t they?

Jim thought about his friends, and his stomach sank a little. They didn’t have rings. And Steve, poor Steve—the kid was like him, a member of the original settlers. He wondered if someone in Steve’s family had a ring. Jim’s grandparents had said there were others that had them too, but never said who. How cool would it be if Steve had one, and was wearing it?

Yeah, buddy, he thought. Steve is afraid of the island, just like you. He wore his mommy’s ring to protect him from the mean witch. You two can protect your friends if she shows up, and save the day. Gwen will be so grateful, she’ll offer you a lifetime of blowjobs with swallows whenever you want them.

Jim closed his eyes for a moment, unable to believe what he was thinking. He was such a tool. Yes, a real loser. That was the appropriate word. Thinking about magical rings and worrying about his friends because they weren’t protected like himself? LOSER!

“Jim,” Gwen said.

Jim opened his eyes. “What?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why’d you stop rowing?”

“Oh, sorry. I must have zoned out.”

“Cut the guy some slack, task-master Gwen,” Paul said. “The guy’s saving his strength for—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Saving his strength to rock my world. I get it. We all get it.”

Jim shook his head as he eyed Paul, then picked up rowing again. He needed to get Gwen to the island and find out what was eating away at her.

“It looks so fucking spooky,” Shay said, staring at the island, then she and Paul broke into laughter.

“Witch Island,” Paul said, “Ooooohhhhh wwwaaaaaa!” He made claw-hands and grabbed Shay, pretending to attack her.

A chill ran down Jim’s spine. His pulse quickened. He was so damn close to the island. He hadn’t been looking ahead, but down, as he rowed, not wanting to see the place.

Almost there, he couldn’t avoid seeing it, and looked up. Jim shivered for a moment, as if a cold blast of wind swept over him. His breath caught in his chest. Then he looked at the ring and drew his kid-like power from it. He forced himself to study the island, glancing at all the trees, then realized it looked like any other woodland area, save the water surrounding it.

What did you think you’d see? A place covered in blood? Devils and monsters patrolling the shores, looking to snatch up passersby?

Jim took a deep breath and almost laughed with relief.

“Looks like we found a great place to dock the boats,” Darren said. “A natural beach.” He and Steve rowed in until the canoe hit land. Steve hopped out, held the boat steady as the others departed, then Darren pulled the canoe onto land.

Jim couldn’t believe how easy it was to come ashore. Most of the island’s perimeter was crammed with trees that hung over the water. Vines, like starved anacondas, draped from the branches. At least the police wouldn’t be anywhere near here, nor be able to spot their campfire. The forest looked like it swallowed whatever entered it.

Jim and Gwen paddled to the shore. Darren pulled the boat halfway out of the water.

A small grassy area extended about twenty feet to the sides and fifty feet back. Jim sat still, gripping the oar with sweat-slicked palms. He watched as everyone exited the canoe, taking bags of groceries and other supplies with them. Jim wasn’t sure he would be able to leave. Now that he was at the island, the reality of where he was going hit him full on. He held his breath waiting for something to happen.

You’ve got to do this, he told himself. Stand up and step out. Don’t be a pussy. You’re here and you’re not backing out now.

“Jim,” Paul said, “you coming or what?”

“Yeah.”

Jim couldn’t wimp out. He’d ruin the night for everyone. Even if they all stayed, Gwen wouldn’t. Sure, they would understand, but… He’d had the opportunity to change the party’s location, and didn’t. Again, he glanced at the antique ring on his finger. Screw it, he thought, then stood. He walked to the front of the boat and stepped out.

Chapter Twelve

Billy Montgomery sat on a worn computer chair in Damien Reynolds’ room, rolling a fat joint.

“Damn,” Damien said, “I wish I had your skills.”

“It comes naturally. Now quit hanging over me.”

“Sorry, man. Are we smoking that now?”

“It’s for later,” Billy said. “Stop pestering me about smoking it, you fiend.”

Billy finished the roll, picked up the joint and ran it along the tip of his tongue, wetting the rolling paper and sealing the deal. He admired his work, like he always did, then tucked the green, leafy smoke behind his ear.

He turned around in the chair and stared at the items on the bed—two flashlights, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s No. 7, a hammer and a battery operated drill that Damien had borrowed from his dad, of course, without his dad knowing.

“Looks like we have everything we need for tonight,” Billy said, then rose from his chair, picked up the drill and pulled the trigger. The device roared.

“I told you I charged it,” Damien said. “Man, don’t you trust me?”

“Get the bag.”

Damien went to his overflowing closet, pushed aside old jackets and flannel shirts and pulled the black backpack from its hanger. He tossed it to Billy.

The items on the bed were loaded into the bag. Billy took a long swig from the bottle of Jack before placing it into a separate compartment to keep it from clanging against the drill and possibly breaking. His face scrunched up as the whiskey made its way down his gullet. “Good shit.”

“Let me get some,” Damien said, holding out his hand.

“We’re taking your car, remember? Mine’s too noticeable. And unlike myself, you can’t drive worth a shit when you’ve had a few. Besides, if we get pulled over, we don’t need any bullshit.”

“Man, Billy,” Damien whined. “That ain’t fair. I want to get fucked up.”

“I know, that’s the problem. You can’t control yourself. You’re either stone-cold sober, or on your way to total Annihilationville.” Billy gently slapped his friend’s cheek. “Tonight’s too important. We can’t risk getting pulled over. On a normal night, I’d say screw it, let’s get wasted, and we will, but we need to be clear-headed until the task is complete.”

“I guess you’re right.” Damien’s shoulders slumped.

Billy rolled his eyes and sighed. “All right.” He pulled out the bottle of Jack and handed it to Damien. “Fuck it, we’ll walk to the lake. It’s only twenty minutes. But don’t drink too much. We need to get this done, and I want some of this shit to celebrate with.”

“Walking is a better idea,” Damien said enthusiastically. “This way there’s no proof we were anywhere near those assholes.”

“Exactly my way of thinking.”

Damien removed the cap, then lifted the bottle to his chapped lips. Billy watched the air bubbles rise through the golden liquid as Damien’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. After a few gulps, he swiped the bottle back.

“Hey,” Damien protested, his chin glistening.

“Give me the cap.”

Damien handed it over, and the bottle was sealed and placed into the bag. “We’ll party hard later. You should get a nice buzz from what you just swallowed.”

“Bah, maybe. Truthfully, I think I do my best work when I’m fucked up.”

Billy laughed.

They left the house as twilight was settling in, the neighborhood dwindling under the low light, houses and yards fading away. They reached Lake Road and headed down it, hiding off to the side whenever a car came along to avoid being spotted in the area.

They came upon the vehicles parked alongside the road. A grin spread across Billy’s. He looked at Damien.

“We shouldn’t,” Damien said. “Fucking with their vehicles will involve the police, insurance companies too. If we get caught doing what we’re about to do out on the island, they’ll tie it to us.”

“No one’s around,” Billy said. “No one saw us here. We hear a car coming, we hide, like we’ve been doing.”

“All right.”

Billy approached the first vehicle, a Toyota. It was Gwen’s car. It was old, not worth doing anything to. He moved to the next vehicle, a beautiful, shiny red pickup, the huge tires making the truck look like a miniature-sized monster truck. Normally, trying to slash such thick tires would be difficult, take time, but they had the drill.

Billy knelt by the rear tire, unzipped the backpack and removed the drill. “Keep an eye out for cars.” It was dark enough that drivers should be using their headlights, but it was best to be wary in the event a car came along without them on.

“Dude,” Damien said, giggling, “this is so fucked up, but so awesome too.”

Billy pressed the bit against the side of the tire and pulled the drill’s trigger. The machine was loud, seeming thunderous in the quiet evening. It ate hungrily, churning out slivers of rubber as it sank deeper and deeper into the tire. Billy pushed and pulled, easing the bit in. The rubber proved tougher than he imagined. Sweat built along his skin.

Darren really hadn’t done anything bad to him over the years. It was the others, Jim and Paul and Shay and Melinda, giving him the stink eye, calling him a dirt-bag behind his back, then finally, it escalated to a fight when Paul caught Damien staring at Shay. Then one night at a party in the woods, a fight broke out between Paul and Billy, the two eyeing each other all night. On purpose, Billy had stared at Shay all night, even bumped into her and copped a feel. Well, that had been it. Paul flipped and tackled Billy. The two went at it, but then Darren broke it up when Billy grabbed a log and went to whack Paul in the head. He would’ve won the fight, really messed the kid up.

From that night, those jocks had been out for him, always talking behind his back, gluing his locker shut and even slashing his tires. He had no proof it was them, but he knew. The way they looked at him, the way Jim, the golden boy, smirked at him behind Darren’s back. Payback was a bitch.

“Fuck Darren,” Billy grumbled, as he continued to drill the kid’s tire. He might not have done anything directly to him, but he was part of that jock group. “Fuck them all.” And when he was done with this tire, he was doing the others too.

“You say something?” Damien asked.

“No, just working.”

Finally, the bit was all the way into the tire. Billy clicked the reverse lever and guided the bit out. Rubber-smelling air whistled rapidly from the tire.

“Car,” Damien warned.

Billy stuffed the drill into the backpack, then ran to the last car and dove into the weeds where Damien was already waiting. Headlights lit up the road, then vanished as the vehicle passed by.

“You finish?” Damien asked.

“Yeah. Harder than I thought though.” Billy wiped sweat from his forehead. “Fuck the rest of the tires. It’ll take too long. Let’s head down to the boat.”

They left the weeds and walked quickly alongside the vehicles. Billy heard a scraping noise and turned around. Damien was keying the cars as he walked by them.

Damien stopped. “What?”

“Nothing. That’s just brilliant. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

Billy took out his house key and joined Damien in keying the cars as they walked by them. The two had a good laugh when they were finished, admiring their work, before heading down to the boats.

Damien unlocked his parents’ rowboat. He and Billy pushed the boat into the water, then climbed in and began rowing to Witch Island.

Chapter Thirteen

Jim and the others hiked into the woods, using flashlights to guide the way. He thought it would be great if they camped out on the grassy beach area, near the shore. The canoes were right there in case they were needed. Jim knew he was being silly, but being near the boats made him feel better. He brought up the idea, but Paul quickly brought up a great point.

“Cops will be able to see the campfire from here,” Paul said. “We need to go farther in. If they think it’s a genuine fire, the fire department will be called in. It’ll become a real mess. We don’t want that.”

So it was off to the dreaded heart of the island. No one wanted to be bothered, not even by a curious night fisherman.

Oddly enough, they were heading along a narrow trail. Ordinarily, Jim would’ve assumed it was a deer trail, but there were no deer on such a small island, at least he didn’t think so. And as far as he knew, no one came to the island. It was just a small piece of wooded land. He was sure the occasional passerby might’ve stopped to check things out, see the legend for itself before realizing it was just an island. Then why was there a trail?

Maybe there were rabbits and squirrels, raccoons even, but those types of animals didn’t leave trails like the one he was walking down.

The farther in they went, the more the brush thickened, the trees seeming to crowd in on them. Mosquitoes started biting, everyone swatting and scratching their exposed parts.

Darren was in the lead, using the machete he had brought from his house to chop down any vegetation in the group’s path.

Steve and Paul were carrying the cooler.

“Damn weeds,” Shay protested. “I keep getting scratched. Cut them back more, big guy.”

“You’ll be fine,” Darren said.

“The mosquitoes will thank you for making it easier to get to your blood,” Paul said, laughing.

“Just don’t trip over anything with the cooler,” Gwen said. “We don’t need exploding cans of beer.”

“Oh, the cooler isn’t going anywhere but to the spot we place it,” Paul said.

Jim was quiet. Talking probably would’ve been the best thing for him, keep his mind occupied, but he didn’t want to ramble about nothing and appear scared.

He couldn’t believe he was doing it. Not only was he on Witch Island, but he was heading to its heart. His mouth was parched, throat tight. He needed a beer and fast. Something to calm him down a bit. With all this thick forest, he wondered where they were going. What if there was no place to set up camp? He suddenly felt better, hoping that was the case. Maybe his friends would grow tired of hiking, and want to turn around and leave.

“What the hell?” Darren said from up ahead.

Jim heard the surprise in Darren’s voice, followed by a “holy shit” from Paul, and a “wow” from Julie. He hurried forward, shoving aside Steve to get a look, and saw that the forest had disappeared.

“What is this place?” Shay asked.

A large, barren area took up the space in front of him, as if the forest had been blown out. Flashlight beams shone around, but the bright moonlight was enough to see by.

“Looks like a desert,” Darren said.

“Yeah, like the rain hasn’t touched this place in years,” Gwen said.

Jim could’ve sworn he was looking at a section of a desiccated, midwestern plane, as if a small chunk of it had been airlifted and dropped in the middle of Witch Island.

The clearing was almost perfectly circular. The ground appeared scorched, dried out and cracked. Not a single weed grew, but the tree line appeared normal, flourishing even, the leaves as green as they come. In the center of the clearing was a pole, sticking out of the soil.

“Guys,” Shay said, “I’ve studied all kinds of shit—garden soil, volcanic rock, moon rock—and I’ve never seen or heard of something like this, except when a fire’s been involved.”

“Or radiation,” Paul said.

“Nope,” Shay said. “Look how the ground is evenly dried out and ends abruptly where the forest starts. It’s like an invisible wall is surrounding this place. If this was radiation, most of the trees surrounding the clearing would be dead.”

“I still say it’s from radiation,” Paul said. “Maybe a meteorite crashed here and tainted the soil. We might all be getting exposed as we speak.” He cupped his crotch. “Cover your balls, gents, and ladies, your tits.”

Everyone started laughing.

“Well, I don’t know about you all,” Darren said, “but I’m tired of hacking, slashing and hiking. I think we found our campsite.”

“No weeds means less snakes and bugs,” Melinda said. “Looks good to me.”

Everyone seemed to agree wholeheartedly. Jim remained silent. He wanted to protest, saying they should go somewhere else. This place was odd, and a little unnerving. Why the others didn’t think so, he didn’t know. He kept his mouth shut and glanced at the ring on his finger, his security blanket. He almost laughed at the thought, but as ridiculous as he felt, if it worked in calming him a little, then so be it.

Everyone settled down. Camping and beach chairs were set up, and the cooler was opened. Steve grabbed two beers, handing one to Julie. Jim heard the pop of the cans’ tops and asked Steve to hand him one, wanting the liquid courage flowing through his system.

“Here you go,” Steve said, handing Jim a cold one.

Jim almost dropped the can when he saw the ring on Steve’s finger. The thing was identical to his.

“We need firewood,” Darren said. “Any volunteers?”

“I got it,” Steve said, just as Jim was about to ask him about the ring.

“I’ll help too,” Julie said.

“How much do we need?” Steve said.

“Enough for the night,” Darren said, popping open a can of beer.

“And how much is that?” Julie asked.

“Just keep bringing it until we have a nice-sized pile. I’ll work on getting it started with kindling and newspaper.”

Paul came over to the cooler and snatched a beer from it. “What a night,” he said, smiling. He popped the top, the hiss echoing in the distance. He brought the can to his lips and gulped, then let out a huge burp. “Ahhh.”

“Pig,” Shay joked.

“Could’ve been a fart, be glad,” Paul said with a straight face.

Shay shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Boys can be so crass.”

“Yeah, they sure can be,” Gwen agreed, then turned to Jim. “Grab me a beer, sweetie?”

“Sure,” Jim said.

“Boy?” Paul said. He grabbed his crotch. “I’m a full-grown manly man.”

Jim lifted the cooler and grabbed a beer, then handed it to Gwen and took a seat in the foldout chair next to her.

“Guys,” Darren said, “we need wood. Let’s get this fire started so we can have better light and some smoke to keep the bugs away.”

“Chill,” Paul said. “We’ll get it, just having a little cocktail first.”

“Me and Steve will get the bigger logs,” Jim said, knowing he was interfering with Steve and Julie’s time alone, but he needed to talk to the kid. “That’s if it’s okay with you, Julie?”

“Sure,” she said, taking a sip from her beer. “Have fun.”

Jim detected a hint of sadness in her voice, but she and Steve would have all night to do their thing.

Steve and Jim finished their beers quickly, then placed them in the trash bag that Gwen had hung from one of the tree limbs.

With flashlights in hand, they headed into the woods. When they were a little ways from the camp, Jim said, “Sorry for interrupting your and Julie’s alone time, but I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

“Where did you get that ring?” Jim asked, shining the light on Steve’s hand.

“Ugly, huh?” Steve said, showing off the jewelry.

Jim moved the flashlight’s beam to his own hand.

Steve’s eyebrows arched. “You have one too?”

“Yeah. Freaking thing has been passed down through my family for generations.”

“Me too.”

“Did your parents make you promise to wear it?” Jim asked.

“Dude, this is too weird,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“Both our families must be original descendants of the town.”

“Yeah. Guess the superstitions traveled with the rings.”

“Do you know the story?” Jim asked, hoping Steve did.

“Just that it’s supposed to protect the wearer from evil, but you don’t believe that, do you?”

Jim shrugged. “Who knows? Margaret Rivers could’ve been a real person. A real witch, even.” Jim felt his throat constrict at saying the words. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten them out. He was still confused about the whole witch thing. No, not really confused, but unnerved. He was trying so hard to act like being on the island didn’t bother him. He didn’t want to believe in the legend and kept telling himself the whole thing was bullshit, but some part of him kept telling him to leave. He had hoped talking to Steve would help him sort out his feelings, send them one way or another. Seeing Steve with the same ring, knowing the story, Jim wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

“Is that why you’re wearing the ring?” Steve asked. “To protect you from the witch?”

Jim couldn’t tell if Steve was being serious or not, but he felt his face redden from embarrassment. Steve was his good friend, and had helped him through some tough times. He decided to be truthful, thinking maybe it would help with how he was feeling.

“Kind of,” Jim said. “I mean…” He felt flustered for words. “…because of what happened to Greg…how and where he died. You know how my parents flipped out. Well, they made me promise to wear this ring whenever I came to the lake. They said to do it for them, said it would protect me. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Steve nodded. “I get it. I was told the same shit. Wear it for protection, but to be honest, I don’t believe in any witch. I’m wearing it because it’s cool-looking. Kelly hated it, said it was ugly. So me wearing it is a big ‘fuck you’ to her.”

Steve found it fascinating that he and Jim had the same rings and same family history. He didn’t think Jim was being childish for wearing the ring. He understood his friend’s situation—brother dying near the island and all.

Steve had his own secret, and needed to tell someone. He was tired of being alone, quiet and depressed. Since his almost-attempted suicide, and seeing Julie, he’d felt giddy. He needed to tell someone about it, and felt like he could talk to Jim.

“Since we’re telling each other stuff,” Steve said, “I’ve got something to tell you.” He closed his eyes, hoping the words would come easily, and they did. “I tried to kill myself.”

Jim took a step back, mouth agape. “What? When?”

“Today.” There, it was out. Someone knew. Steve’s body felt lighter. He wasn’t ashamed. He saw a nice-looking log near Jim’s foot, bent and picked it up.

“Ha, ha,” Jim said. “Trying to make me feel better?”

Steve looked Jim in the eyes. “I’m serious, man. I almost did it.”

“You’re not joking.”

“Nope,” Steve said. “I couldn’t take it anymore, you know?” Steve sighed. “Losing Kelly, not getting in to any colleges, my mom wasting away…” He rubbed a hand over his head.

“Sorry, man,” Jim said. “I knew things were tough, but I had no idea. You could’ve come to me. You were there for me when Greg died, remember?”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve took a breath, looked up, and smiled. “But I’m doing great now.” He told Jim about how he put the pills in his mouth, and how Jim’s call woke him up to what he was about to do. “It was like getting struck by a bolt of positively charged lightning. I suddenly didn’t want to die. I was able to look at myself and realize I deserved better. Fuck Kelly. Fuck my mom. Fuck not getting into college. Some of those things I couldn’t do anything about, but the college part I sure could. I could go to community college, get my grades up, then apply to a school of my choice, make something of myself.”

Jim was silent, a look of complete awe on his face. Finally, he said, “So, the whole almost-suicide thing was a blessing in disguise?”

“Yeah. I haven’t felt this good in a long, long time. I mean, Julie’s here. If that isn’t things looking up, I don’t know what is.”

Steve started looking for wood again. “It feels so good to be able to tell someone what happened, what I’ve been going through.”

Jim was happy for his friend. He knew the kid had it tough, and that something had been bothering him. He was a little shaken about what Steve had told him, and truly hoped he wasn’t in some kind of euphoric state due to the almost-attempted suicide. If he crashed sometime later, he might try again, though for some reason, he didn’t think that would be the case. He saw a gleam in Steve’s eye that hadn’t been there in quite a while.

Standing there, Jim panned his flashlight’s beam around, looking for wood. He didn’t want to make their conversation any more odd than it had been. Steve seemed okay with it, going about business as usual, but maybe he was just pushing himself to get past it.

“Steve,” Jim said, grabbing a rotten log that crumbled in his hand. He swatted away the debris from his palm, then continued searching. “If you ever feel the need to talk, about anything, don’t hesitate to come to me, even when I’m away at college.”

“Thanks man,” Steve said. “I mean it, but I think I’m good now. I feel like I’ve been woken up. I’ve got a new outlook, a new life. It won’t be easy, I know, but I’m going to push forward and see it through. I’m a good kid, and I’ve put up with enough shit.”

“Sounds good,” Jim said, finding a good piece of lumber. He picked it up, checked it for creepy crawlies, then set it in the crook of his arm. He took a deep breath, his legs shaky. The realization of his friend almost dying was sinking in. If he hadn’t called… What if his friend had used a gun? Or jumped from a building? Once the bullet left the chamber, or the person left the roof, that was it. At least with the pills, he was able to spit them out. And if he had swallowed them, he could have had his stomach pumped if he changed his mind, called 911.

Things happened for a reason, and maybe Steve’s situation was needed to help the kid steer his life in a positive direction.

Good for him, Jim thought, staring at Steve. Good for him.

Chapter Fourteen

Jim and Steve returned with armfuls of branches and logs. Melinda and Julie had also gone for wood, having produced a nice-sized pile themselves.

Darren was on his hands and knees, crumpling up sheets of newspaper into balls, then placing them together on the ground. Next, he piled small twigs on top, in tic-tac-toe fashion, about six inches high, then leaned twigs around the structure, creating a miniature teepee.

“You’re quite the architect,” Paul said.

“Learned this in Cub Scouts, wise-ass,” Darren said. “Best way to start a fire and get a good group of coals that’ll last all night.” He pulled the bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket and squirted a few streams of the flammable liquid onto the small pyre.

“That’s cheating,” Paul said, then tossed his empty can toward the hanging garbage bag, missing badly. Gwen shook her head, then angrily stomped over and picked it up, and slammed it into the bag.

Darren lit a match and tossed it onto the wood. The sticks and paper burst into flames. Once the fire settled and was burning brightly, larger pieces of wood were added, sending sparks into the night air.

Everyone sat in chairs around the campfire, except for Steve and Julie, who chose to sit on a log they’d rolled in, as there weren’t enough chairs to go around.

The clearing was well lit, the flames creating ominous shadows that flickered in the distance, causing it to look like the tree line was alive with movement. Hot dogs were cooked over the fire using skewers, while hamburgers were set atop a foldout grate. Steve, Julie, and Melinda added onions to their burgers. Beer cans were popped open all throughout the dinner, and the garbage bag quickly filled to the halfway mark in no time with plates, napkins and beer cans. Talk among the group ranged from old times, to the future, and what might come. Everyone, including Jim, seemed to be having a good time.

The more Gwen drank, the more she focused on Paul, which was funny because she didn’t want to even look at him. With every word he uttered, her anger seemed to grow, festering under her skin like some nasty insect. He was being his crude, obnoxious self, telling dirty jokes and laughing with the guys. He hadn’t once looked at Melinda.

Melinda was huddled next to Darren, holding his arm, sipping the same beer she’d originally opened, and being quiet. Miss Innocent? Gwen thought not.

Paul was a snake. He’d done some stupid things, but sleeping with his friend’s girl was just the stupidest. Gwen wanted him to pay for almost ruining their little group.

Paul looked at her, as if hearing her thoughts, and she looked away. Of course, he hadn’t known what she was thinking. Gwen had probably just stared at him too long, getting his attention.

She moved her focus to Melinda and shook her head. Melinda wasn’t completely innocent, but she was partly to blame. Paul had been the real scumbag, taking advantage of her fragile state and drunkenness. They’d both just have to live with it, though she figured it would be much easier for Paul to deal with than Melinda.

“Ouch,” Julie said, swatting her neck. “Mosquitoes are biting tonight.”

“Yeah,” Darren agreed. “Anyone bring bug spray?”

“Really?” Steve asked. “I haven’t felt one bite.”

“Me either,” Jim said.

“Well, I have,” Shay said.

“Yeah,” Gwen agreed. “These little buggers are bleeding me dry, and I already sprayed myself.”

“It’s like we’re being attacked,” Darren said, upending another beer.

“Considering they’ve probably been surviving on things smaller than Steve’s dick,” Paul said, “we’re like a welcomed feast.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said.

Gwen got out the bug spray, sprayed herself again, then passed it on down the line to Darren.

The witch used her newfound strength to command the tiny, winged bloodsuckers. She felt the life go out of them each time one was swatted to its death, but most were able to bite and leave without their presence being known. With their bellies full, translucent abdomens aglow with the red liquid, they flew across the clearing, wings working feverishly to carry their extra weight. When they finally landed on the ground above her grave, they burst, the blood of the island’s visitors cascading to the earth. The witch sucked the life blood into the hardened soil, pulling every molecule of red into her bones, and little by little, her power grew.

Shay was already buzzing nicely. She usually became horny when she drank. Alcohol and sex went so well together. But she wasn’t feeling it tonight. The thought of doing it in the woods, with no tent, bugs lurking everywhere, not to mention the thought of mosquitoes sinking their needles into her exposed crotch, ass and tits wasn’t exactly a comforting image. Then she thought about the larger things, like snakes and spiders, and shivered. No way was she doing anything. Okay, maybe she’d blow Paul, but that was it. She laughed, thinking about much he’d want it, then how Paul would spend the rest of the week scratching his balls and ass from the mosquito bites he’d get. Shay liked to take her time when giving head, which would give the insects plenty of time to get a meal in.

Something red flashed to Shay’s right. She glanced across the clearing to where the pole was sticking out of the ground. For a brief second, the ground appeared to be glowing, then faded to its usual color. “Did you guys see that?”

“See what?” Paul asked.

“I didn’t see anything,” Gwen said.

“A soft red bloom of light,” Shay said.

“I think you better slow down, babe,” Paul said.

Shay got up from her chair and headed over to the pole, taking one of the flashlights with her. She could’ve sworn she had seen a red glow come from the ground. Getting on her hands and knees, she inspected the area around the pole, then saw something. She brushed away a thin layer of dirt with her fingers. The object was oval shaped and solid. Interest piqued, she began clearing away more dirt.

Steve was flying high, the combination of his wake-up call, Julie and the alcohol flowing through him was almost too much. He felt like jumping up from his seat on the log and doing a happy dance. He didn’t want this feeling or night to end. In one day, everything had gone from total shit to totally awesome. And his not going away to college might truly be a blessing in disguise. Sure, he was looking way into the future, for he had only known Julie for a short while, met her only once before tonight, but he couldn’t help himself.

Julie was a junior and still had a year to go in high school. He had no idea what her plans were going to be when she graduated, but it didn’t matter. If things worked out between them—and why wouldn’t they—he could go on seeing her all through next year, and depending how things went, maybe longer. He’d have to talk to her about that, but at a later time, of course. He needed to calm down, relax, play it cool a little, or he might freak her out.

Julie didn’t know if it was the beer or Steve’s single status, but he seemed much more comfortable around her than the first time they’d met. As soon as they rolled the log up to the fire, he’d put his arm around her. And they’d been talking nonstop, with absolutely no awkward silence between them, as each one constantly had something to say next. It helped that there were others around, often joining in on their conversation, or themselves offering input on the current topic of the group.

Julie had felt a strong connection with Steve the last time they met, which was also the first time. But he’d had a girlfriend. Supposedly she was a real bitch, and no one in the group liked her, but they put up with her because she was with Steve.

A week after Shay’s party, after meeting Steve, Julie remembered constantly thinking about him, hoping that Steve’s relationship wouldn’t last and she could swoop in. She couldn’t know for sure, but she felt certain he had felt something too, that he had really, really liked her.

Julie went on with her life, dated other guys, but for some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. She compared everyone she went out with to him, and she’d only met him for a day. It had to be true love, for why else had she been feeling that way?

If she’d gone to the same school as Steve, her time there would’ve been awful. She would’ve had to see him with his girlfriend every day of the week. But she lived a few towns away, which was a good and bad thing.

Gwen had told her that Steve would be staying around, working. She’d have a whole year with him. Amazing. She’d been waiting so long for this, hoping it might happen, but never fully believed it.

“Hey,” Steve said. “I got to pee, be right back.”

“Okay,” Julie said, then added, “Watch out for snakes.”

“Don’t worry, Julie,” Paul said, having overheard them. “I was only kidding about Steve having a small dick. His snake will scare away most others.”

“Um, okay,” she said.

“Ignore him, Julie,” Steve said as he walked away. “He’s just jealous.”

Paul stood. “Jealous? I’ll show you jealous.” He grabbed his fly, unzipped it and stuck his hand in his pants, apparently ready to whip out the goods. Darren shot out an arm and shoved Paul, who stumbled into his chair and flipped over backwards.

“You ain’t whipping out that thing in front of me, or my girl,” Darren said. “No sir.”

Laughter broke out amongst everyone, including Paul, who rolled around, pounding the ground with his fist.

Julie laughed too, took a sip from her beer, then looked to her right and saw Shay digging in the dirt. “What’s Shay doing over there?”

“Digging for lost pirate treasure,” Gwen said, laughing.

“No,” Darren said. “I think she’s looking for Paul’s balls.”

“Oh,” Paul shouted, after uprighting his chair. “You want to see balls?” With his zipper still down, he reached into his pants again. Darren rose from his chair and chased Paul. Both men fell and laughed as they rolled around, before returning to their seats, breathing hard.

“I need another brewsky,” Paul said, and headed over to the cooler.

“Guys,” Shay said. “There’s something here.”

“Shay, stop playing in the dirt,” Paul said. “You’ll have plenty of time to do that in college. Get over here and be with your man.”

Shay continued what she was doing. Paul grabbed a few beers, handed one to Jim and one to Gwen, then went back to his chair. “Suit yourself, woman.”

Intrigued, Julie stood, and walked over to Shay.

“Maybe she found a body,” Melinda said, finally joining in on the conversation after having been so quiet.

“Yeah,” Paul said, “the witch’s bones, oooh, or maybe one of her victims.”

“You know, babe,” Shay said, “sometimes, you’re an idiot.”

“Hey, I’m getting shitfaced, I’m allowed.”

Julie stood before Shay. “What did you find?”

“Not sure yet, but it looks old.”

Shay managed to clear away the earth from around the object, revealing what she guessed was the head of a railroad spike, but it wasn’t rusted or dirty. It practically glowed with newness as if it had just been made. She curled her fingers around it, then jerked her hand away. It was hot. She touched it again with her finger, feeling its temperature, and realized it wasn’t scalding, just very warm. Even in the summer, something like this, made of iron or steel, should be more on the cooler side. She gripped it again and tried pulling it free, but it wouldn’t budge. She asked Julie to find her a stick or something that she could use to dig with.

Julie returned in minutes with the machete.

“You girls better not dull the blade,” Darren said.

“We’re not,” Shay answered, chipping the hard earth and shoveling it from around the spike. Now that it was more unearthed, she grabbed the spike again, having a much better grip, and pulled. She strained, wanting the thing out, thinking maybe it was nailed into something else. She pulled harder, about to give up, when it slid free. Shay cried out as she flew back.

Laughter erupted from behind her.

“Are you okay?” Julie asked.

Shay sat there for a moment, deciding, then laughed at herself. “Yeah, that was some funny shit.”

Julie held out her arms and helped Shay up.

Still laughing, she dusted herself off, then picked up the spike she had dropped. It was no longer heated, feeling cool to the touch. She studied it under Julie’s flashlight beam and saw that not a single piece of dirt was stuck to the thing. It had unfamiliar markings carved into the sides. One symbol looked like a pitchfork. Shay could only guess it was some kind of archaic language.

Shay snatched the flashlight out of Julie’s hand, and started scanning the ground with it.

“Um, okay…” Julie said.

“Sorry, I’m just really excited about this and want to see if there are any more. This has got to be a relic, something ceremonial and a great find. If I bring this to college and show my professor…I mean who knows, right?”

“Sure,” Julie said.

“Look,” Shay said, shining the light on another oval spike head. “Another one.” Shay handed Julie the flashlight and told her to shine it on the spike while she cleared the dirt around it, making it more visible.

Julie called Steve over to help, and soon all three had found a number of spike heads and had cleared away the dirt around them.

“Okay,” Shay said. “Looks like we found them all, unless there are more throughout this clearing, so let’s stick to this area for now.” She wondered if she should stop what she was doing and call some university, have professionals come in and do a proper dig, with her assisting of course. Screw that, this is my find, Shay thought.

“Should we start digging them out?” Julie asked, clearly excited by the find.

“Yes, but go slowly, we don’t want to damage anything. These things might be priceless.”

Chapter Fifteen

The witch spun with anticipation as one of the spikes from the devil’s barricade was pulled from the ground. A portion of the tremendous weight that held her down, kept her powers in check, had been lifted. The other wards were still in place, but the trespassers were above her. She’d felt them when they arrived, like flies to the spider’s web. Two were protected, and members of the ones who had killed her. She had resisted attacking the others, knowing that such a large group could prove a problem for her, even hurt her. She only had the strength to fight one, maybe two individuals.

Using the mosquitoes to bring her sustenance, what little it was, had taken some of her power, but the blood delivered was worth it.

Another spike was removed, and the witch danced with glee. Yes, she thought. Yes. The time has come for my freedom.

It had been so long that she had almost forgotten who she was and what had happened to her, but the fresh blood and the feel of those that wronged her made her remember.

The year was 1904. It was evening, the sun having dipped below the horizon a few hours ago. Margaret Rivers was sitting at the kitchen table when a knock came at the door.

“Hello, is anyone home?” a male voice asked. “Please, we need help out here.”

Since moving to town, no one but Father O’Brady had ever paid the Rivers a visit during the day, let alone at night, which made this moment a most unsettling one for Margaret, whose husband was ill in bed. Living on the outskirts of town, she feared bandits had found her home, seeing it as an easy target.

Margaret rose from her chair and hurried to the fireplace where a double-barrel shotgun rested above the mantle. She grabbed the weapon, checked to make sure it was loaded, then faced the doorway to her house.

The knocking became pounding, the door rattling thunderously in its frame. Whoever was on the other side was indeed desperate for something. She heard multiple voices too. Panicked, she swallowed the lump in her throat, and stood by the door, gun pointed at it.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“It’s Constable Ryan. I’ve got Father O’Brady here and he’s very sick.”

Margaret wondered what they wanted from her. She was no doctor, not the traditional kind anyway. Her ways were shunned by most and would never be considered, especially for a priest.

“It’s late and my husband’s sick,” Margaret said. “Take him to Doctor Frederick.”

“The doc’s gone. Had to leave town and won’t be back for another day or two.”

If it was anyone else, she would have refused, but Constable Ryan was the law, and Margaret rather liked Father O’Brady, having met him earlier that day. He must have told the constable to bring him to her.

When Margaret and her husband had arrived in town, the place seemed like a dream. The area was beautiful, the countryside exactly where she and her husband had wanted to live and raise a family. Previously, they’d been living in the slums of Manhattan, a dangerous and dirty place not fit for rats, though they seemed to thrive there.

Initially, the people of Salisbury Mills had been kind, smiling and welcoming, but when the couple didn’t attend church services, especially on Sunday, that all changed. Rumors spread. People no longer spoke with them. Some turned their heads; others watched them with narrowed eyes and scowls on their faces. Margaret grew somewhat worried, until Father O’Brady paid them a visit, giving her hope.

“Good day, ma’am,” he had said. “My name’s Father O’Brady.” The man had a close-cut beard, was broad-shouldered and handsome.

“Yes?” Margaret asked, looking past the man to see if he was alone. “What brings you out this way?” Margaret thought she knew the reason. Back in the city, she’d been visited by men of faith before, the reasons always the same—to get her to change her ways and see the light.

“Is Mr. Rivers home?”

Margaret wanted nothing more than to slam the door shut in the man’s face, but held her anger in check and grinned. She didn’t want to upset the townspeople any more than they already were.

“No, Mr. Rivers is not able to come to the door at this time,” she said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

The man’s brow furrowed. He looked concerned. “Your absence at the church has been noticed.”

Margaret felt her face redden. She ground her teeth, holding the grin steady. “We’re not religious in your ways, Father.”

“Ahh,” the man said, nodding. “In what way are you religious, if you don’t mind me asking such a personal question?”

Margaret’s anger dissipated. She wasn’t getting a bad vibe from the priest. In fact, she was sensing honest interest in her situation. “You’re not like most priests, are you?”

The man smiled warmly. “God loves all his children, whether they are on His direct path or not.” A moment of pause as the two stared at each other. “May I come in and talk with you?”

She stared into his unblinking eyes, trying to find a reason to send him away, but came up with nothing. It was wiser to be nice to the priest. If anything, his word might carry some weight with the townsfolk. But more than that, it was because she was intrigued by him, sensing she might even come to like him.

“Sure,” she said, moving aside to allow him entrance.

She led him to a chair in the kitchen. The walls were decorated with paintings of countryside landscapes—hillsides, mountains and forests with deer and rabbits present—all painted by her and her husband when they had lived in the city. The couple would often pretend the paintings’ frames were windows, the paintings themselves views of what was outside their apartment, giving them hope that one day they could move to a place where such views really did exist.

Father O’Brady sat at the kitchen table in front of the fireplace.

“Care for some English tea?” Margaret asked.

“Would love some, thank you.”

The kettle had already been filled with water. Margaret set it over the flames, using the fireplace mitt. It came to a boil quickly and tea was served. She sat adjacent to the man.

“As a man of the cloth, it is my duty to spread the word of God, but more than that, His message.”

“And what is His message?” Margaret asked, taking a sip from her cup.

Father O’Brady chuckled. “You are a strong woman, Mrs. Rivers.”

“That I am,” she said. “But please, call me Margaret.”

“Okay, Margaret.”

“Look, I know why you are here. My people have been persecuted for centuries, first in Europe and now in America. Killed because of our beliefs. We are good people, just like you.”

The priest’s face sobered. “There is no excuse for violence. I have traveled to distant lands, spreading His word. I’ve been witness to horrible things. Man has a dark side, this I have no doubt. We are truly living in strange and difficult times, and that is why I have come to your home today.”

A groan of pain came from the back room.

“Is someone hurt?” Father O’Brady asked.

“My husband is ill.”

“What’s wrong with him? We should get him to the doctor.”

“He has a fever. Hasn’t been eating well.”

“May I see him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. He needs his rest. He’ll be better in a few days. I’m treating him.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No. I am a healer.”

“I see.”

“Margaret,” came a weary voice from the other room.

Before Margaret knew it, her husband was standing in the kitchen doorway, ragged and sleepy-eyed. His face was pale and dotted with sweat.

Margaret sprang from her chair and went to him. “What are you doing up?”

“It sounded like we had company,” he said.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” she told him, and tried ushering him from the room, but he held strong for a moment.

“Hello, Mr. Rivers,” Father O’Brady said, standing. There is no need for concern. I’ve simply stopped by for a quick visit with the missus, to properly introduce myself. If I’d known you were sick, I would have come at another time.”

“Please, call me Jonathan. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I must apologize for my condition, as I am not up to having company.”

“No, no, you mustn’t apologize. It is I who apologizes.”

Margaret put her hand under her husband’s chin so that he looked at her. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Jonathan nodded, then stumbled against the wall. Father O’Brady jumped up and took hold of the man. Together, they walked Jonathan to the bedroom.

They laid him down and he erupted into a coughing fit. He pushed himself up, leaned off the side of the bed and expelled a wad of yellow phlegm into a wooden bucket filled with water. “Please, excuse me.” He collapsed back down, eyes closed.

“Not at all,” Father O’Brady said, holding up a hand. “I shall take my leave, as I see you need to sleep.”

“Aye,” Jonathan said, “that I do.” He reached out and grabbed Margaret’s hand. “My wife’s going to fix me right up. Always does. She takes good care of me.”

Margaret tucked her husband in. “I’ll be right outside. Now get some rest.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Jonathan,” Father O’Brady said.

“The same, Father,” Jonathan said. “Please, come back in a few days when I’m better, and we’ll talk.”

“I will certainly do that.”

Back in the kitchen, Margaret asked if Father O’Brady wanted more tea before he left.

“No, no,” the man said kindly. “I’ve intruded enough.”

Margaret walked the priest to the front door. He walked out, then turned around. “I thank you kindly for your hospitality.”

“You are most welcome, Father,” Margaret said. “Please, come back anytime.” It was the proper thing to say, but she truly meant it. This man was unlike any priest she had ever met, and she looked forward to getting to know him.

Father O’Brady stared at her, grinning. Margaret felt a bit awkward, wondering what was going through the man’s mind.

“You’re good people,” he finally said. “Different than most I come across. I have an open mind and heart. I follow God’s laws and believe in what I teach, but I also believe not everyone is meant to be the same. The most important thing I teach is love. That’s the bottom line. I can see that you and your husband are good people who truly love one another. I may not agree with your religious practices, but this land is open to all, is it not?”

Margaret forced a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I’m glad we agree on that.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid there are others, most of the town in fact, that are not as understanding. I am somewhat new to the town myself, having only taken over the church a couple of years ago. Before that was Father Duncan, a good, but stern man and strict in his teachings. I do my best to preach God’s love, but as with most people, they fear what they do not understand or know.

“I will do my best to make your stay in Salisbury Mills as comfortable as possible, but it wouldn’t hurt to come to church, at least a meeting or two a month. I preach more than just the word. I’d hope you’d consider having an open mind as I do, and come visit. Give me a chance. You and your husband can introduce yourselves, and let the people of the town see how wonderful you are.”

“Thank you, Father,” Margaret said. “When my husband is well, we shall consider your offer.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The man thanked her again, then headed off down the trail.

Now, Margaret was holding a shotgun, pointed at the door, ready to blow away whoever was on the other side. And for what? Because she was afraid of the past, of what she’d been witness to, the hangings, burnings and stabbings. The city was far away, that part of her life gone. She needed to change with her new home. She needed to trust people. The priest was a good man, and if he was hurt and needed her help, then she would help him.

Margaret unlocked the door, readied her hand on the knob to open it, when it flew inward. She yelped and jumped back, nearly squeezing the weapon’s trigger.

A crowd had gathered outside. Many held torches, pitchforks, axes and other tools. Father O’Brady was nowhere in sight. His earlier visitation must have been a trick. He had been a spy. Anger flared in Margaret’s bones, her grip on the shotgun tightening.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, stepping forward, afraid, but attempting to show no fear.

“Witch!” someone shouted.

A man wielding an ax rushed at the doorway, screaming. His eyes were wide with fury. Margaret raised the shotgun and fired, blowing a huge hole in the man’s chest and sending him back into the crowd. She rushed forward and slammed the door closed, locking it. She knew it would do little to keep them out.

Panic seized her. She couldn’t believe this was happening again. She and Jonathan had only been in town a short while. They had done nothing to provoke this. Skipping church wouldn’t have brought this on. Someone had lied, said they saw something. It had to be Father O’Brady, but he’d seemed like such a good man. She thought about escaping out the back window, but her husband was too ill and wouldn’t make it more than a few steps before the throng caught him.

The couple’s friends had warned them to stay in the city. Sure, it was a dirty place where the rich had it great and the poor suffered, but at least her kind were able to blend in better, pretend. Some were found out, but most were not.

Living in the city had been about survival, not living. Margaret and Jonathan wanted to raise a family, live off the land and practice their religion. Why was being in touch with nature such a crime?

“Come out, witch,” a male voice shouted.

“I’m not a witch,” Margaret answered, knowing the declaration was pointless. These people were worked up, in a frenzy. They had already decided her fate.

The crowd was chanting now. “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Margaret glanced out a small window and saw villagers tossing their torches at the house.

“What’s happening?” a voice from behind said.

Margaret jumped, inadvertently squeezing the trigger, and sent a round of BBs into the floor.

“Margaret?” Jonathan asked, holding a hand over his heart, clearly caught off guard.

“We need to leave,” she said. She opened the gun, pulled out the spent shells and loaded new ones. If she had to, she’d carry him to safety.

Her husband started coughing. He grabbed onto the back of a chair to steady himself.

Margaret ran to him. She smelled smoke. Looking up, she saw gray, snake-like plumes slithering through the air. Flames erupted from her right along the windowsill. “I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving the shotgun with her husband. She ran to the bedroom and looked out the window. Men were standing in the backyard, holding torches and farming tools. The house was surrounded.

Margaret’s heart sank.

The window burst, sending shards of glass over her and the room. She put her arms up and jumped back, feeling glass slice the flesh along her arms and forehead. A large stone rested on the floor before her. Movement caught her eye and she looked up. A torch came through the window and landed next to the bed. The blankets went up immediately.

Margaret ran back to the kitchen. Jonathan was standing by the front door, holding a knife at his side. He looked at Margaret. “I’ll hold them off. Take the gun and leave out the back.”

“The house is surrounded,” she said.

More windows exploded as rocks came through, followed by torches. She grabbed the kettle and doused a fire close to her, but it was pointless, as the whole house was aflame. The ceiling was aglow with orange, and the air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to breathe.

Jonathan was doubled over, coughing.

Margaret hurried to him. He finally stopped coughing and looked into her eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Tears filled their eyes as they held each other.

“We have to…leave,” Margaret said, coughing. “Stay behind me.” She left her husband and grabbed the shotgun.

Jonathan blocked the doorway. “No. I’ll go out first and distract them, while you make a run for the forest.”

“Never!” she said. “I’ll never leave you.” Knowing he would try something stupid, she shoved him aside, yanked open the flame-engulfed door and charged outside, shotgun in hand.

“There she is,” someone yelled.

“Get her,” another said. “Don’t let her escape.”

“Leave us alone,” Jonathan yelled from behind her.

Margaret spun and saw her husband standing in the doorway of their house. A loud snap and the crash of timber sounded from above. The house shifted. Jonathan stepped forward in an attempt to flee, but tripped and fell. Flaming beams came down, crushing his legs, setting him on fire.

“Nooooo!” Margaret screamed as she ran to him, but before she reached him, his entire body was in flames. His cries became gargled as he thrashed around, begging for help.

There was nothing she could do. She fell to her knees, crying, her heart wrenched in agony.

The crowd looked on, with stunned and confused expressions on their faces. No one moved. Then they raised their weapons, faces now angry snarls. Three men ran at her. She pivoted around and raised the shotgun. All three men stopped short, terror written across their faces. Margaret aimed at one man and fired, sending her target to his grave. She didn’t stop there, and fired at the next man, hitting him in the face, obliterating his jaw and throat. He fell over, clawing at what was left of his head. Blood gushed from the exposed arteries. Teeth littered the ground. One of his eyes was dislodged from the impact, and was dangling against his cheek.

The third man stared at his friends, then at Margaret. His eyes narrowed. “She’s empty,” he yelled.

The crowd swarmed in. Five men came forth, holding axes, sickles and hammers. Margaret flipped the gun around, gripping it by the heated barrels, and swung it like a club, hitting one of the men in the head. His mouth opened and eyes rolled back as he fell to the ground. She readied the weapon again and heard her husband’s cries. He was still alive.

She spun around, but only saw an unmoving, burning corpse, the jaw hanging open. Tears streamed down her face as the realization hit her hard, and then something cracked her over the head, and everything went dark.

The next thing she knew, she was tied to a pole on the island, burned alive. Her remains were buried, and left to rot.

Now, all these years later, Margaret’s spirit seethed with rage.

Another spike from the devil’s barricade was removed, the crushing weight, the binds, lessening. Then another, and another, until only one remained. Vengeance would soon be hers.

Chapter Sixteen

“I think that’s all of them,” Julie said, holding one of the spikes. Taking a look at the ground, she saw that, where the spikes had been, they formed an elongated hexagon, with the iron pole at the head.

Shay grabbed her backpack and placed all five of the spikes inside, then added Julie’s. She put the bag down and stepped into the hexagon. She stepped out, waited a few moments, then stepped back inside.

“What are you doing?” Julie asked.

“This is incredible,” Shay said. “The air is much warmer here.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really.” Shay stepped outside the hexagon. “Try it.”

Julie did, and as soon as she crossed the invisible threshold, where the spikes had been, her body heated up, as if she’d stepped onto a city vent, but without the gust. “Whoa,” she said, then stepped back, and felt cooler air surround her again.

“See?” Shay asked.

“Incredible is right.” Julie stepped back onto the soil within the six-sided shape and felt warm air encompass her again, but this time, the air was extremely hot, like the air directly above the campfire. She found it difficult to breathe. She needed to move, to get out, but her body wouldn’t respond. The hot air wafted around her, slithering along her flesh like unseen serpents, leaving a scorching slime over her entire body.

Terror took hold and she tried to scream, but her mouth was frozen shut. Something bad was happening. She felt it in her gut. They’d done something wrong when they removed the spikes, as if the shiny nails had held something in check. Her insides were on fire. Movement was impossible, and she wondered if she was having some kind of seizure. Her vision wavered for a moment, like when she looked through the glass window of an oven set on high, then cleared. The heat level within her rose to extreme levels, and she wondered if her insides were turning to mush. She was being microwaved from the inside out. Then her body suddenly went numb and she moved, but it wasn’t under her control.

The possession took hold. The witch had made it out of her grave and into the body of a girl. She steadied herself, feeling wobbly on her feet. She flexed her arms, jaw and legs.

“Are you okay?” the girl next to her asked.

The witch nodded. She went through the girl’s mind, learning all that she knew, becoming Julie Clark.

“Because you look like you might fall over,” Shay said, and placed a hand on Julie to settler her. “Damn, girl, you’re warm. You better get out of there.”

The witch stepped out of the circle, taking the heat with her, feeling reborn, alive. “It’s gone,” the witch said, using Julie’s voice. “No more heat.”

Shay stepped into the hexagon. “You’re right. What the hell happened?”

The witch ignored her and walked over to the campfire. She eyed Julie’s crush, Steve. The boy was an original descendant of the ones who had killed her. She did not know how she knew this, but she did. She scanned the group, setting her sights on the blond-haired kid, Jim Ryan. Her eyes widened. She knew this name. Ryan. Then she remembered the town constable from her time—Kenneth Ryan. So, she thought, this is the lawman’s kin. She would make sure to deal with him later.

“Have fun playing in the dirt?” Steve asked.

“More than you know,” the witch said. She laid a finger on his shoulder, then traced it up his neck to his chin, feeling something odd, almost painful. The boy was protected, her power unable to be used on him. She looked over Steve’s form, taking notice of the ring on his right hand. It was old, handcrafted and held the signature of a warden. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered what he had done to her. But not to give away her disdain, she smiled and pulled Steve from his seat on the log, making sure to grab him by his left hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Where are we going?” Steve asked.

Pulling him along, Julie said, “Away from here, and somewhere more private.” She turned her head, winked at him, then faced forward again.

Steve chugged the beer in his hand, then tossed the can over his shoulder.

“Looks like someone, and an unlikely someone, is getting lucky before the rest of us,” Paul said.

Whistles and catcalls came from the group as Julie led Steve into the woods.

A branch scraped Steve’s cheek just below his right eye, causing him to flinch. “I can’t see a thing. How do you know where you’re going?”

“My eyes adjusted to the dark,” Julie said, then pulled the flashlight from her pocket and flicked it on. “Better?”

“Much, but I have to admit, I’m a bit curious about where we’re going.”

“You know, for a boy who is getting dragged into the woods by a horny girl who likes him, you’re pretty stupid. Are you trying to kill the moment?”

Steve’s heart sank at hearing Julie’s words. The way in which she had said them was cold. But he had been acting like a child, wondering where she was taking him. Duh, you moron, he thought. She’s taking you into the woods to get laid, or at least blow you.

Steve didn’t need anything from her, at least not yet. He was happy just to be hooking up with a nice girl, a girl he hadn’t stopped thinking about, even when he was with Kelly. Of course, he wouldn’t mind having sex with Julie—in fact, he very much wanted to. He hoped it wasn’t moving too fast, but if she wanted him, she was going to have him. He wasn’t wasted, just a little buzzed, which was good because he’d last longer. Couldn’t have his first time with her be a stinker.

“Sorry?” Steve said, then squeezed her hand, letting her know how much he enjoyed being with her.

“It’s okay,” she said, and squeezed back. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then be a good boy and walk with me.”

The witch took him to a small clearing. She turned off the flashlight, the moon’s illumination casting a soft hue over the tall grasses as they swayed ever so gently in the breeze. The air smelled sweet, but with a hint of swamp rot, the mixture pleasant and intoxicating to the witch. She faced Steve, making sure to be careful of his ring-wearing hand. She needed to take her time, get him to obey, but the kid stepped forward, reached up with his hand and grabbed her neck in what she could only guess was an attempt at a passionate embrace.

The witch cried out and shoved Steve away.

“What?” he asked. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” she said, rubbing her neck and feeling the singed flesh. The kid looked spooked, his face pale, breaths coming fast. She needed him calm. “I think my hair got caught in your ring. Damn, that hurt.”

“Are you okay?” he asked, stepping toward her.

“Yes,” she said, holding out her arm. She wanted to snap his neck, drink his blood, eat his liver and heart. She forced a smile, trying to appear seductive, using the images from her host’s mind.

Steve saw the look of annoyance on Julie’s face vanish, replaced with a warm smile. Relief flooded through him. She wasn’t upset at his clumsiness. So far, with his earlier comment, and now this, he was zero for two. He needed the rest of the night, especially the current situation, to go smoother, go right.

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” Julie asked.

Steve thought about guessing, but decided to just shake his head.

“Run naked through the woods, pretending I’m a nymph from some fairytale.”

Steve’s eyes widened as Julie pulled off her shirt, dropping it at her feet. Her black lace bra looked ready to burst with goodness, her pale breasts glistening under the moonlight.

“Like what you see so far?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Steve’s heart was beating fast. His groin tingled with excitement, soft becoming hard.

Julie giggled, then reached behind to her back and removed her bra, letting it drop to the ground, revealing rather large-for-her-size breasts. She grinned at him while cupping them, nipples erect.

Steve’s mouth dropped open, his eyes staring.

Julie slid her hands from her breasts, down her hips to her jeans, then yanked them off, kicking them into the grass.

Damn, Steve thought, Julie has a tight little body. His penis was as hard as a rock. He was going to blow his load before he even took his pants off. He’d just have to make sure he came twice. If he was going to be a one-second man, he was going to make sure Julie knew he could go a few times.

Julie had her panties off in seconds, revealing a neatly trimmed mound of pubic hair. She held the skimpy undergarment up, smiled, then flung it at Steve’s chest.

Steve couldn’t move. Julie was incredible, not because she was naked and extremely hot, with her wild red hair and creamy skin, but because she was being herself, and more than comfortable around him. From what he knew of her, and he had asked a lot about her when he had first met her, she wasn’t the sleep-around, easy type.

“You just going to stand there?” Julie asked. “Or get naked and join me?”

“I…um…” Steve stuttered.

“Take it off, big boy,” Julie said, licking her lips. “I want some of what you’ve got.”

As much as Steve wanted to, he wasn’t sure this was such a smart idea. A good one, hell yes, but not a wise one. He’d jumped into the sack when he met Kelly, and look what happened. He didn’t want to ruin the potential relationship he could have with Julie. Well, at least most of him cared. The thing in his pants only wanted one thing.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but aren’t you worried that having sex so soon might ruin everything?” Steve looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “I mean, you’re beautiful, and I’d like nothing more than to be with you, but—”

Julie put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I’ve wanted you since the day we first met. I’ve thought about you almost every day, knowing we were meant to be together. All I had to do was wait. I knew we’d work out, but it had to be when you were ready. We’re here now, together. I’ve waited long enough, haven’t you? I want to be with you, tonight, now. I need you inside me, our bodies as one.”

Steve swallowed. He wasn’t breathing, then remembered to, and inhaled. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, and he felt the same. They were kindred spirits, meant to be together. He’d known it when they first met, just as she had said. It was inexplicable, but now that he was free from Kelly, his mind was clear.

He reached in to kiss her, but she held out her arm, a very strong arm. She shook her head, keeping her eyes locked onto his. “No. Not until you’re naked, like me.”

Giving in to his desires, Steve kicked off his sneakers, socks, then pulled off his T-shirt and jeans, leaving him in only his boxers, tented from his erection. Julie arched her eyebrows, then nodded toward his crotch.

“Those too,” she said.

Steve slid them off. He was naked, standing in front of a girl he thought he was minutes away from falling in love with. Kelly was such a distant memory, yet he she kept popping into his head. She would never have done anything like this. She made him feel like his nakedness was something to be ashamed of, that his body was lanky, not appealing. Man, she had done a number on him.

Now, he felt more secure about himself than ever. He didn’t have the biggest dick in the world, but it was average-sized, and did the job—even making Kelly moan and squirm with pleasure. She’d complained and bitched about a lot of things, but his penis wasn’t one of them.

He went to move to her, but she shook her head. “I said everything, you naughty boy.”

“That’s everything.”

“That thing on your finger…” she said, sounding cold.

“This?” he asked, holding up his hand. “This is the deal breaker?”

Julie nodded.

“Then off it comes,” he said, sliding the ring from his finger. He bent and tucked the ring into the pocket of his jeans.

Before he knew it, Julie was all over him, kissing his neck and touching below. They kissed, and he cupped a hand over her right breast. He was on the brink of exploding.

The witch wanted to play, to make the boy suffer. She should’ve had time, but there was a new presence on the island. Two more souls had come to her, and she needed to see to them, consume them. Julie hadn’t been expecting anyone else, but Julie was sort of an outsider, not a group regular.

“Are you expecting anyone else to come to the island tonight?” the witch asked, still standing, as Steve was kissing his way to her breasts.

“What?” he asked, sounding confused.

The witch lifted his head up to hers. “Is the group expecting anyone else tonight?”

“No, of course not. It’s just us. Why?”

The witch sighed, knowing she would have to move quickly and see what was going on. She needed to be in control of the island again, which meant leaving the girl’s body.

“Because we have company.”

“We do? I don’t under—”

The witch shoved Steve’s chin up, exposing his neck. She sprang forward and clamped her mouth around his Adam’s apple, bit down and tore it free. Blood spewed forth, covering her face. Steve’s eyes were bulging in shock, his body shaking. The witch spat out the meat, then forced Steve’s mouth open, breaking the jaw so that it hung loosely. She clamped down onto his tongue with her teeth and ripped out the taste-bud-laden muscle. She held him with one hand while she chewed, devouring the flesh quickly.

The boy was still alive. He struggled weakly, his arms and legs losing most of their strength.

The witch shoved him to the ground and dove on top of him. Concentrating on her fingers, she made them steel-like strong, then tore into Steve’s chest, cracking through the breastbone. She reached his still-beating heart, blood filling his chest cavity, and tore it free before sucking it dry.

Covered in red, her body glistening under the moonlight, the witch stood, feeling new power surge through her. The boy was dead. She needed to absorb his essence into her, into the island. She was free to roam in the girl’s body as well as in her spirit form, but was still not strong enough to leave her prison. The devil’s barrier had kept her weak. Her spirit would always be bound to her bones, unless they were burned or destroyed, in which case she would either perish or be free to claim another’s. But for now, with enough blood, enough soul essence, possessing a host, she would be able leave the cursed island.

The witch reached up and sank her nails into Julie’s throat, tearing away the flesh. She had liked Julie’s body. It would have been fun to use it against the others.

The witch left Julie’s body, becoming one with the island again. There, she would be able to absorb Steve’s flesh and blood properly, then move on to Julie’s, before she headed to the other side of the island to see about the new arrivals.

Julie had control of her body again. Pain and fright overwhelmed her senses.

She had been witness to a nightmare, unable to do a thing about it. From when she was inside the hexagon, to stripping naked and killing Steve, she hadn’t been herself. Something had been in control of her. Shay and she had released something when they removed the spikes, she was sure of it.

She’d seen herself tear her own throat out, but at the time, had not felt a thing, thinking maybe the whole thing was a bad dream, but now she knew it was real, and knew she was dying. Her throat was on fire. She could barely breathe, each inhalation accompanied by a wet, gurgling sound that made her cough. She was drowning in her own blood.

She looked down at herself, and saw her naked form covered in red. Stumbling forward, she wanted to run and warn the others. Her strength was fading quickly. She fell to her knees, hoping she could make it to her friends. She wouldn’t be able to tell them anything, but her mere condition would alert them, get them to leave the island. Gwen was a nurse—maybe, just maybe, she could save Julie. Do something for her until they got her to a hospital.

On her knees, the world tuning out, Julie knew her fate was sealed. The red kept pouring out of her, lathering the ground in a silky sheen.

She collapsed sideways, rolling onto her back. Panic seized her last moments, and she wished she could be with her family one last time. She had so much left that she wanted to do, accomplish.

Her lungs begged for air, her body convulsing, but none came. She stiffened, felt nothing but serenity, then knew no more.

Chapter Seventeen

They had flashlights, but didn’t need to use them as they crossed the lake. Rowing sucked, Billy thought, but it would be worth it when he and Damien were done with their mission and sitting back with a fat joint and some booze, waiting for the show to begin.

From a distance, Billy hadn’t seen any light coming from the island, campfire or artificial, which was a good thing. It meant he and Damien wouldn’t be seen as they approached. Jim and his asshole friends were probably a ways in, wanting to avoid being seen, at least that’s what he’d have done.

They kept close to the island, moving slowly through the water, looking for where the assholes might’ve pulled their boats onto land. A minute later, Billy saw the trees give way to a grassy clearing. “There,” he said, pointing. “They must’ve docked there.”

They rowed to shore. Billy grinned at seeing the trampled grass. Then he saw the canoes. He scanned the area, listening. “I don’t think anyone’s around.”

“Yeah, they’re inland for sure,” Damien said.

Faint laughter sounded in the distance.

“We have to do this quickly,” Billy whispered. “Sounds like they’re all set and having a good time, but you never know when one of them assholes might wander back to check on the boats.”

Billy and Damien hopped out and pulled the boat farther onto the land, but keeping it near the shore in the event they needed a fast getaway.

The original plan was to drill holes in the canoes, then watch from across the lake as Jim and his friends screamed and hollered that their boats were sinking. It would’ve been a riot, and worth staying up all night for. But now, Billy was having second thoughts.

“Dude,” Billy said, crouching next to the rowboat, “I don’t think we can drill the canoes.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll make too much noise. Someone might hear it and come check it out.”

“So, let’s just push the things in the water.”

Billy thought for a moment. He wanted so badly to put holes in the canoes—that was the plan, his plan—but he couldn’t risk getting caught. There would be property damage done. His father wouldn’t be able to get him out of it. He’d have to pay for the repairs, which would kill him financially and mentally. Those rich pricks didn’t deserve shit, and there was no way he was paying for anything that was owned by them.

Billy nodded. “It won’t be as funny as watching them sink, but it’s good enough.”

They crept up to one of the canoes and shoved it into the water, then did the same with the other canoe.

“Bon voyage,” Damien said, laughing quietly. “This is too cool.”

“Wish we could do more,” Billy said, “like scare the shit out of them or steal their booze, but we can’t take a chance of them seeing us.”

“Fuck it,” Damien said. “Let’s get the hell out of here and smoke that joint.” He turned to head back to the rowboat and almost fell, his left foot refusing to budge. “What the fuck?” he cried.

“Shut up, man,” Billy said. “You want us to get caught?”

“Something’s got my foot. It’s stuck.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dude, my foot’s tangled in the grass, like totally knotted up. I can’t even see my shoes.”

“Quiet down, you moron,” Billy demanded, walking over to him.

Damien watched as the grass slithered up his leg to his knee. “I think I’m tripping, man.” Panic set in. He couldn’t be tripping; he hadn’t taken anything, unless he was having some strange flashback that wasn’t really a flashback but something else. Shit, whatever was happening had to be real. Then he remembered where they were.

“Shit, man,” he cried, struggling to get free. “Get this shit off me.”

Billy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d thought his friend was goofing around, being an idiot, but he wasn’t. Damien’s lower left leg was completely wrapped in green. “What the hell is going—” The words were cut short as more grass sprang toward Damien’s right leg, entwining it like the left one.

Damien was crying now, pulling at his legs, trying to get free. “It hurts, man. It realty hurts.” Blood oozed from between the individual strands, the grass tightening itself around Damien’s leg.

“Hold on, dude,” Billy said, and pulled his folding knife out of his back pocket. “I’ll cut you free.”

A vine shot from the darkness and into Damien’s mouth, immediately silencing his cries. Billy watched his friend’s hands clamp around the thing, trying to stop it, but the vine continued its course. Damien’s cheeks bulged. Blood exploded from his nostrils. His throat thickened as the vine continued onward, working its way down his throat and into his stomach. Damien’s body was shaking, blood spurting from the corners of his mouth.

Billy stood frozen in place, having forgotten about his little knife. He could not comprehend what he was seeing, the impossibility of it. His friend was being attacked by nature, fucking nature. He remembered his dad’s words, the warnings and the stories about the island.

Blood covered the front of Damien’s shirt as it oozed from his mouth, nose and ears. He arched his neck to look at Billy, pure terror on his face, when his right eyeball popped from the socket, shoved out by the vine.

Damien stopped struggling. His arms fell to his sides, his entire body limp, held upright by the vine, like some human meat puppet. Two more vines shot from the woods, piercing Damien’s corpse, filling him. Then Damien exploded, the vines tearing him apart, scattering his innards everywhere, as if he’d swallowed a grenade.

Something inside Billy screamed at him to move, and he finally did. Stumbling the first few steps, he managed an all-out sprint. He felt the grasses try to wrap themselves around his feet, but he was moving too fast, his momentum snapping the strands before too many had a chance to entangle him.

Billy reached the boat and didn’t slow. He tackled it like a linebacker and shoved it into the water, throwing himself inside. He felt a modicum of relief as the boat sailed away from the island. He pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed his father, then tucked it between his ear and shoulder. Finding the oars, he started to row. The phone slipped and fell, landing with a clunk on the bottom of the boat.

Damn it. He stopped rowing and searched almost blindly in the darkness for the phone. His flashlight was back on the island. He found the thin back cover, the phone having come apart—like it always did when it fell. Continuing to search, he finally found it. The battery was still inside. He clamped on the cover, then restarted the phone, the thing seeming to take forever.

The phone chimed that it was on, then loaded up, and Billy dialed his father again.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already been arrested,” his father answered, angrily.

“Damien’s dead, Dad,” Billy cried. “The island got him. You were right.” He picked up the oars again and rowed, wanting to get as far away from the island as possible. He couldn’t believe Damien was dead, ripped apart by…by what? A fucking witch? “Dad, you need to get out here. I wasn’t alone on the—”

Something was squeezing Billy’s throat closed. He couldn’t talk, let alone breathe. His head was building with pressure, the blood unable to flow. He let go of the oars and felt the roughness of bark around his neck—a vine had him!

No, he wasn’t going out like Damien. He was going to live—

Billy was yanked backward. His back collided with the bow, the steel digging into this flesh. The pain was hot, but he couldn’t scream. He felt and heard something snap in his neck as he was yanked into the lake and dragged through the water toward the island. He couldn’t feel anything but his face, as if his head had been ripped from his body. Breath still wouldn’t come, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t raise his arms to try and pry himself free.

As the water washed over him, he thought about the joint he’d had tucked behind his ear and thought, what a waste.

A moment later, his eyes remained open, but Billy Montgomery was dead.

Chapter Eighteen

“Billy? Billy?” Frank yelled into his cell phone. He glanced at the screen and saw that the call timer had stop counting. He dialed his son back, but the call went directly to voicemail. He tried again, getting the same result.

Shit, what the hell was going on?

Frank stared through the windshield of his SUV. The world began to spin. He clutched the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He needed a moment to sift through what he’d just heard. His son had said Damien was dead, and that the island had gotten him. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, realizing he had stopped breathing. The breaths had to be forced, as if his diaphragm refused to work on its own.

Anxiety gripped him, sending an emotional storm surging from his gut to his head. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the ring rub across his scalp. He held his hand in front of him and stared at the heirloom. His mouth was parched. His eyes went to the bottle of water resting in the cup holder, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to do anything. Billy’s words kept repeating in his mind.

Why hadn’t he insisted his son wear the ring? Demanded it? He should have paid the kid to wear it. But he knew the answer—Billy was a bad kid, and would’ve sold or lost it.

Frank reached out, gripped the water bottle and unscrewed the cap. With a shaky hand, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. His throat muscles were tight, swallowing took effort and he coughed as the liquid went down. But it felt good, so he took another sip, then another, until he was gulping the water and the bottle was upended, save for a few remaining drops that clung to the container’s walls.

Frank turned off his police radio. He swallowed hard, knowing what he had to do, wondering why he wasn’t rushing to his son.

Because Billy’s a liar, and he’s probably lying about the island. He’d be the last one to believe in such a story. He’s putting you on, screwing with you.

No, that wasn’t right. He’d heard real fear in his son’s voice, terror.

Run! If your son’s on the island and the witch is after him, he’s probably already dead.

He touched the ring with his finger, feeling the engraving. Something scratched at the back of his mind.

You’re the sheriff, damn it. You swore to protect the people of this town, but more than that, Billy is your son. Be a father and protect him.

Frank turned the key in the ignition. He was jumbled in his seat as the V8 came to life. Anxious, but angry, he put the truck into drive and hit the gas, tearing out of the hidden spot alongside the road, a place he liked to sit and wait for calls.

Fighting against his thoughts, using his heart to guide him, Frank drove to Lake Road, and headed to where the Sheriff Department’s boat was kept.

Chapter Nineteen

The witch absorbed the fresh kills, her power growing. Her essence was able to spread out farther. Every tree, leaf, vine and plant was a part of her to some degree. She felt every creature’s touch—the claws of a squirrel, the grasp of a bird’s talons, the soft breaths of a rabbit asleep in its burrow and the tickling sensation of thousands of insects as they scurried and crawled over and within her.

She was truly one with nature, but there was pain too. However minor, it radiated outward, like the ripples from a stone tossed into a lake. At its center, the pain stung like a fresh wound, never healing, but farther away from the source, the pain lessened to little more than an annoyance. It was the dead boy’s, Steve’s, ring, the spelled relic lying in the grassy clearing where she had killed him. She wanted it gone, and not simply tossed away, but destroyed. However, she could do little about it, unable to touch it. When she left the island, she would no longer care, the insignificant pain a long-ago memory. The bigger problem was that the item would keep her from attaining full strength, unless she withdrew herself from the island or left it. Which meant she needed more bodies, and thankfully, there were plenty more available.

She scanned the camp, looking for a suitable host to possess. Using Julie’s memories, she focused in on one, then concentrated herself into a single tree that sat on the edge of the clearing. A mosquito rested on one of the tree’s leaves, its belly full of blood. The witch traveled along the branch and into the insect.

Having no cognitive thought process, the mosquito was easy to possess, like an empty vessel, but difficult to command. Its brain was designed for simple tasks, with only a few main goals. Thinking within the insect was difficult, but the witch managed. Having just fed, its need to feed was nonexistent. The witch remedied this, greatly speeding up the digestive process while protecting its body.

The mosquito became ravenous, the witch aiding in its thirst by heightening its senses. The bug took flight, and the witch guided it toward the human named Melinda.

The mosquito landed on the girl’s shoulder, the witch making sure it did not come into direct contact with her skin, as to not alert her to its presence. It traveled to her shirt collar. Arching its tiny neck, it sank the needle into Melinda’s flesh, injecting its saliva to thin the blood for extraction, along with the witch’s spirit.

Melinda felt a sting on her neck and motioned to swat the area, but found she was unable to move her arm. Freaked out, she tried to get up, but couldn’t. Darren nudged her on the arm, a sensation of pins and needles settling over the area. She felt nothing except for the intense amount of heat building within her.

She saw that everyone was laughing and talking, continuing to have a good time. No one seemed to notice her situation, and she wondered if she’d eaten something bad or was having some kind of odd anxiety attack.

From the minute she arrived at the lake, she wondered how it would be between herself and Paul. He barely looked her way, let alone spoke to her in school or whenever they were hanging out together. After getting to the camp, building a fire and opening some beers, Paul was acting the same as he always had, hanging all over Shay, kissing and hugging her, talking and joking with Darren, doing things as if their time together had never happened. She wished she hated him, but for whatever reason, she didn’t. However, she was beginning to think he was a true asshole with no feelings, for how could he be acting so normal?

The sting in her neck became a burning pain, as if a curling iron had been pressed against it. She tried to cry out, but no sound came from her mouth. Intense heat spread from her neck to her head, then across her chest, then down her arms, torso and legs, until she felt as if flames engulfed her.

She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, and only hoped the others would see that something was wrong. She hung on, keeping her mind as steady as possible, not wanting to lose it. But as the moments passed, no one noticed her or saw that she was in trouble. They all continued talking and drinking. Darren said something to her, but she didn’t understand what it was, then her legs moved.

Melinda rose to her feet, but not under her own control. She walked around the fire to where Paul was sitting. He ignored her, talking with Jim. Melinda continued to stare at him. She had no idea what was going on, except that she must’ve fallen asleep and was dreaming. There was no way any of this was possible—any of it!—including walking up to Paul.

He finally stopped talking and looked up at her. “Uh, may I help you?”

“Paul,” she heard herself say. “Can I talk with you?”

Wake up. Wake up, she pleaded with herself. Come on. Wake up. Even if this was a dream, it wasn’t cool. She might inadvertently say something in her sleep, and if she said the wrong thing and Darren heard her… Come on, wake up.

“What?” Paul said, looking as if he was facing down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Nothing. She wanted to say, nothing. My mistake. I don’t really want to talk to you. I’ll go back to my chair now.

“I need to talk with you, alone,” Melinda said.

No, no, no. This was so wrong. And this didn’t feel like a dream. There was no more remaining calm. Her panic level was at an all-time high, and she was going to lose it. But she felt fine, physically. Her heart wasn’t pounding. It was all in her head.

“Um, okay. Sure.” Paul looked very pale. He laughed, but it was clearly an uncomfortable one.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. Maybe her subconscious had taken over and was working itself out, the guilt over what she had done, haunting her to the point of insanity, or a psychotic break.

“Uh oh,” Darren said, laughing, “looks like someone’s in trouble.”

“Mel,” Gwen said.

Melinda turned her head and saw Gwen come into view. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“None of your business. I just need to talk to Paul about something. It’s no biggie.”

“I thought you were joking,” Darren said. “Really? Paul?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, sweetie, it’s not like I’m going to fuck him.”

Silence filled the air.

Inside, Melinda froze, feeling as if her world was about to come to an abrupt end.

“Man, you guys have no sense of humor,” Melinda heard herself say.

Paul looked like he was going to faint. Everyone else broke into laughter, even Shay.

“Don’t worry, Paul,” Melinda said. “It won’t be like our conversation at the Cohens’ party. But you were so helpful, I thought I’d come to you again. It’s about Julie.”

Paul stood, finished his beer, then put the can down. He wiped his hands on his pants legs. “After you,” he said.

Melinda watched as the view changed, from her friends sitting around the fire, to the dark forest. She and Paul walked away, up the trail that led back to the canoes. She attempted to stop herself from walking, to cry out, but nothing worked. All she could do was go along for the ride.

She didn’t want to be alone with Paul, which should have been the least of her worries, but for some reason, it wasn’t. Something really bad was happening, and if she didn’t wake up soon, she feared she might lose her mind, and Darren. As strong as she was, she could only take so much.

A short way down the path, Paul grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m horny,” she said, grinning, then laid her hands on his chest. “Thought we’d have a quickie. You know, right under everyone’s noses.”

Paul stepped away from her and rubbed a hand through his hair. He looked stressed for the first time tonight. “Are you nuts?”

She moved in and went to put her arms around his neck, but he shoved her off. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait,” she said, grabbing his arm. He turned to face her. “Come on, Paul. Fuck me right here.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, mouth open.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’ve had this”—she pointed to herself—“and I know you liked it.”

“Look,” he said, shaking his head.

“What, you’ve had me and don’t want me anymore? Was I just another notch on the bedpost?” She cupped her breasts through her shirt and licked her lips. She stepped up to him, took his right hand and placed it on her left breast. “I know you still want me.”

She grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to her. Paul didn’t resist. Their lips met. Mouths opened and tongues explored. He squeezed her breast, then slid his hand down and up her shirt, under her bra.

Paul couldn’t believe what he was doing. It was wrong on so many levels, but combined with the alcohol and his desire for her, he couldn’t stop himself. No one would find out, and Melinda was into it. The whole situation was exciting. He was instantly hard.

“I’m wet,” Melinda said, whispering into his ear. “I want you inside me.” She reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, then slid them down to his ankles as she crouched, her head even with his crotch. “Someone’s anxious to see me.”

Fuck, Paul’s mind screamed at him. This isn’t right. You’re asking for trouble. Too much trouble. “Wait,” he said, ready to tell her they needed to go back to camp, then changed his mind as she yanked down his boxers. “We can’t do this. Not here.” He grabbed her head and guided her up. “We need to go farther away.”

“Fuck that,” Melinda said, her eyes full of excitement. “This is where I want to fuck. Right here. Right now.”

Paul took a rapid, deep breath. “Screw it,” he said, and started kissing her. She put a finger over his lips and went down. She crouched, her mouth even with his erect penis.

“You’re so big, you know that?” she said.

Melinda wanted to close her eyes as she started to blow Paul, but could do nothing but listen to his moans. Her right hand reached down and grabbed a handful of grass, pulling it from the ground. What the hell am I doing now?

She continued to blow him, feeling like she was going to vomit. This was completely deranged and sick, twisted. She needed help, even if this was a dream. Using the grass, she rubbed the roots, still clinging with dirt, against her blouse, dirtying it. She dropped the grass and ripped open her shirt, sending buttons flying, then pulled down the left cup of her bra and exposed her breast.

Paul must’ve noticed her strange behavior and asked what the hell she was doing.

Melinda stood.

Paul’s face became a mask of confusion as he looked at her chest. “What the hell?”

Melinda reached out and grabbed Paul, then pulled him to the ground and on top of her. “Help!” she yelled. “Help! Paul’s trying to rape me. Get off me. Help!”

Melinda felt Paul try to pull away, but for some reason he wasn’t able to. She was too strong.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Paul asked, struggling to get free. “Are you crazy? Be quiet.”

Melinda continued to scream for help. She tried to stop herself, but like everything else, it was pointless. Her evil side had come out. She was going to make Paul pay, and not just with his friends, but with the law, ruin the guy’s life. She couldn’t do this. Yeah, she was pissed, upset and sad, but she couldn’t allow herself to permanently destroy Paul’s life.

She’d heard of people flipping out, going crazy, saying they didn’t remember what they had done, but nothing like this. This had to be something else, something evil. Then she remembered where she was—Witch Island. No, it couldn’t be. There was no such thing as a witch, at least not the supernatural, evil kind.

Chapter Twenty

“Did you hear that?” Gwen asked.

Darren was on his feet in seconds. “That was Melinda’s voice.”

“Where’d it come from?” Gwen asked.

“That way,” Jim said, pointing down the path that led to the canoes, the same direction Paul and Melinda had gone.

Darren took off, grabbing the machete on his way. Jim was right behind him, flashlight in hand. Melinda’s pleading voice grew louder. Her cries sounded desperate. Darren’s heart pounded with fright. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. It couldn’t be real. She was yelling rape, and Paul’s name. It must be a mistake. Someone else had to be on the island. He’d make them pay, but first and foremost, he hoped his girl was okay. He came upon a terrible scene. Every hair on his body stood.

Paul was on top of Melinda, his pants down, ass exposed.

Darren reached down, grabbed Paul by the collar, yanked him up and tossed him into the weeds. He knelt next to Melinda. Her blouse was ripped open and covered in dirt. Anger and confusion coursed through him, unable to believe what he had seen—was still seeing—but at the same time, knowing it had all happened. Paul had tried to rape his girlfriend.

Shay and Gwen appeared. Gwen shined her flashlight’s beam on Melinda’s tear-streaked face.

“Are you all right?” Darren asked Melinda, putting his hand on her stomach.

“Paul?” Jim said. “What the hell, man?”

“It wasn’t…I didn’t…”

“Paul?” Shay asked, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?”

“Baby,” Darren said. “Talk to me.”

Melinda sat up and wrapped her arms around Darren. She didn’t say anything.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No. I mean, yes. I don’t know.”

“Paul, what did you do?” Shay asked, cocking her head.

“She came on to me,” Paul insisted.

Shay’s face screwed into an angry snarl. She walked up to Paul and smacked him. Gwen pulled her back. “Calm down. He isn’t worth it.”

“Everyone, relax,” Jim said.

“Relax?” Darren said, shooting to his feet. “You want me to relax?”

Jim stood between him and Paul.

“He tried to rape me,” Melinda said, tears streaming down her face.

“That’s bullshit,” Paul shouted.

Darren took a step forward, but Jim intercepted him, putting his hands on the big guy’s chest.

“Get out of my way, Jim,” Darren warned, not taking his eyes off of Paul.

“Give me the machete,” Jim said.

Darren looked at the tool in his hand. He smiled, a wicked sparkle in his eyes. He turned his gaze on Jim, then handed the weapon to him.

“I don’t need a sharp instrument to hurt Paul,” Darren said. “My fists will do just fine.”

Jim tossed the machete aside.

“Darren,” Paul said, buckling his jeans. “I swear, man. I didn’t try to rape her. Yeah, we were going at it, but she came on to me.”

Darren growled and shoved Jim out of the way, but Jim was quick and recovered, pulling on the man’s shoulder. Gwen joined in, standing in front of the football player.

Darren stared at her. His cheek muscles bulged, eyes filled with malevolence.

“It might be true,” Gwen said. “They’ve hooked up before.”

Darren’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I just found out today,” Gwen said.

“You’re so dead,” Shay said.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Melinda said, crying.

“I can’t believe this,” Darren said. His shoulders sagged. He looked at Melinda, his lips quivering.

Jim moved to stand next to Gwen, wanting to stay between Darren and Paul.

“I need to hear it from you,” Darren said, walking over to Melinda. “Is it true?”

Melinda nodded, then buried her face in her hands.

Darren’s emotions were all over the place. Rage built in his heart, quickly conquered by immense sadness, then rage, then sadness again. He felt dizzy and wanted to hurt someone. No, not someone. Paul. But he had to straighten all this out first. Once everything was discovered, then he would react. And as pissed as he was, Melinda still might need his help. Regardless of her cheating, she didn’t deserve to get raped by the guy she had an affair with. He wanted to hate her now, but his heart was telling him otherwise. His heart ached at seeing her so upset. Before he did anything, said anything, he needed to know exactly what had happened.

With his anger coming to the surface, Darren spun and pointed at Paul. “Don’t even think about running. I’ll only be more pissed off if I have to catch you.” He turned back to Melinda, took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to extinguish the anger a little. “Look, for now, forget about—” He paused, unable to think about his girlfriend having sex with Paul. He took another deep breath. “Forget about what you did. Just tell me if he tried to rape you or not.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding, still covering her face.

Darren ground his teeth, feeling his insides boil. He was going all out, trying to remain calm. He’d always used his smarts when dealing with problems, never reacting outright with emotion, even on the football field. This was a serious situation and he couldn’t allow himself to go crazy.

“I slept with Paul,” Melinda blurted, her face glistening with tears. “I got drunk at a party when you were away. He…he took advantage of me.”

Darren closed his eyes at hearing the words, like knives to his heart.

“When?” Shay asked. “What party?”

“Does it matter?” Gwen asked.

“I’m not talking to you,” Shay said, speaking to Gwen, but still staring at Paul. “Melinda? Really, you asshole?” She moved to attack Paul again, but Gwen held her back, wrapping her up in a bear hug. “Let me go!”

“Stop it,” Jim said. “We’re all friends here. Let’s figure this shit out.”

“What’s to figure out?” Shay asked. “Paul can’t keep his dick in his pants. I’ve been dating a cheater and a rapist.”

“Come on,” Paul said. “Do you really think I’d rape someone?”

Paul’s statement struck a chord with Darren. He’d known the kid for a long time. Paul could get almost any girl he wanted, but as far as he knew, Paul had never cheated on Shay with girls from the same school, always going outside the district for his pussy. Darren also knew that once Paul had a piece of ass, he rarely went back for seconds. Maybe Melinda was different. Maybe this time Paul wanted more, to fuck her right under his nose, but Melinda had refused. She was sorry for the mistake she had made. That’s why she’d been acting so quiet lately, distant. Going that extra mile and trying to please him—because she felt guilty. As much as he couldn’t imagine her cheating on him—and with Paul for that matter—there was no way she would do it again, and with himself present.

“And you, Mel,” Shay said, breaking Darren from his thoughts. “You’re a fucking whore. You deserve what you get.”

“Everyone, just shut the fuck up,” Darren yelled. His need to smash something made him think of the Hulk. Becoming the big green monster wasn’t a good idea. He reminded himself of who he was and all he had worked for. He was going to college, had a clean record. Paul was a scumbag who just might be the kind of scumbag to press charges, should Darren throttle him. Right now, it was looking like they at least had him on attempted rape charges. “I want answers.”

Darren stood, still feeling like he might lose it and do something he regretted. His mind flashed with images of Paul and Melinda—the two naked, exploring each other’s most intimate parts. Did she suck his dick? Did he come in her mouth? Did he make her orgasm? Did she enjoy it? Maybe he’d even gotten her pregnant.

“I think we should leave,” Jim said. “Me, Paul and Gwen will take one canoe.”

“No one’s leaving until I get answers,” Darren said, making sure to look Jim in the eyes. “I’m trying real hard not to lose it. Let’s say we all help me not to lose it.”

Melinda got up and hugged Darren, burying her head into his chest. He tensed, not sure if he wanted her to touch him, feeling somewhat repulsed.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, bawling, her voice muffled. “I made a terrible mistake, but it was only once. For the past week, Paul’s been trying to get with me again. Calling me on the phone and harassing me at school. He even cornered me in the girl’s bathroom. I kept refusing him, then tonight, he threatened to tell everyone what happened if I didn’t sleep with him again.”

“Bullshit,” Shay said. “Stop trying to blame this all on Paul. He doesn’t need to chase you. You’re a fucking whore, and when we’re out of here, I’m going to—”

Jim turned on Shay. “Shut up, already, you’re not helping.”

Darren had tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe any of this, and wanted to run away like a little kid. Forget any of this had happened.

“I’m so sorry,” Melinda said, looking up at him. “I couldn’t take it anymore, and figured I would talk to him tonight, with you near. Tell him to leave me alone once and for all, that I wasn’t going to be with him again. He laughed at me, then shoved me to the ground and ripped open my shirt.”

“That’s not true,” Paul said. “I swear, you guys. She came on to me.”

Darren’s world was falling apart. He was seeing red, his anger surfacing. He and Melinda had the perfect relationship—at least he’d thought so. He took a deep breath, needing the oxygen, and smelled the wonderful scent of Melinda’s hair. He loved that scent, loved her.

He’d never cheated on her, and he’d had plenty of opportunities. He didn’t know the future. He was still young, but as far as he was concerned, he had planned on one day marrying Melinda. She’d felt so right.

Now, it was all ruined. Maybe not over, but there was a lot of damage. Couples survived cheating, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to get over it. She and Paul had ruined everything. But he put more of the blame on Paul. Paul was a cheating dog, selfish. The typical playboy. Melinda was kind, thoughtful and big-hearted. He knew her, or rather thought he did. She wouldn’t have slept with Paul unless she was wasted and Paul was being a snake.

Paul needed to pay—but not tonight, and in order to keep something from happening tonight, Darren needed to leave. “I’m out of here.”

“No, you can’t go,” Melinda said.

Darren tried to pry her off him, but her grip was surprisingly strong. A searing heat engulfed his midsection, as if Melinda were on fire. He struggled harder to free himself as the heat spread into him, traveling through his chest and up to his head. He found that he could not move, and began to panic. He was burning up on the inside, but unable to scream.

He finally broke Melinda’s grasp, then to his shock, he shoved her. She cried out and tumbled into the weeds. He hadn’t meant to do that, and went to help her up, but had no control over his body.

“What the hell, Darren?” Gwen said, running to Melinda.

“Dude,” Jim said. “Come on. That wasn’t cool.”

Before he knew it, he was charging at Paul. Jim put a hand on him, but he batted it away. Paul’s eyes widened and he went to run, but Darren reached out, grabbed him by the throat and tackled him to the ground. Darren was up in seconds, straddling Paul. Reaching back, he sent a fist into Paul’s nose, breaking and disfiguring it. Blood exploded over Paul’s face.

As frightened as he was, Darren took pleasure at seeing Paul’s broken face. Maybe this was what losing control was like. An individual’s emotions went out of whack. He lost all ability to reason and control himself, going along for the ride. But that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t gone into a rage until now. He had been thinking—still was, in fact. Hitting Paul was on target for what he wanted to do, but shoving Melinda like he had? No way he would have done that to her, let alone any female.

Now, he needed to gain control of himself. Paul was pretty fucked up, and would probably need surgery to repair his nose. Hopefully, the guy wouldn’t squeal on him, but who knew?

Someone had jumped onto his back. He felt their weight. The person was hitting him, but it didn’t hurt. He reached back, grabbed whoever it was by the hair—a female—and tossed her into the woods, then returned his focus to Paul.

Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were wrapped around Paul’s throat, the kid’s eyes bulging, face turning red. How did that happen? he asked himself. It felt good, squeezing the life from Paul’s body, but then he realized what he was doing. He was killing Paul. No, he had to stop. He wasn’t a murderer. He attempted to release his grip, but like everything else he tried to do, his fingers only seemed to tighten.

Paul struggled to free himself, pawing at Darren’s arms. He dug his nails into Darren’s skin, drawing blood, but Darren felt no pain, and continued to strangle Paul. Then, something gave in Paul’s neck, and Darren’s fingers collapsed into his flesh. Darren screamed inside his own head. Paul stopped fighting, his arms going limp, like an off switch had been flipped. He stared blankly at nothing.

Jim watched Darren tackle Paul. Damn it, he thought, this is bad. He needed to break it up before someone got hurt. He saw Shay jump on top of Darren. She was trying to pry him off of Paul. Good, he might need some help. But then Darren reached back, grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the woods, as if she weighed ounces.

Even for Darren, that was a great feat. The big guy was a terror on the football field, but off the field, especially among friends, he was a teddy bear.

“Get him off of Paul,” Gwen said. “I’ll help Shay.”

Jim came up to Darren and saw what was really happening. Paul was getting the life choked out of him. Paul wasn’t fighting back. “Darren, stop. You’re hurting him. He can’t breathe.” He tried to pull the linebacker off Paul, but it was like trying to lift a car.

The longer Jim looked at Paul, the more the kid looked dead. He wasn’t moving, blinking, or struggling.

Jim jumped on Darren’s back, putting the kid in a chokehold. Darren stood, finally releasing Paul. Darren pried at Jim’s arm, loosening the hold. Jim had succeeded at getting the big guy off of Paul. He just hoped no serious damage had occurred.

Jim had prepared himself for a fight, the big guy enraged, but instead, Darren cried out, as if in immense pain. His body trembled, as if an electrical current ran through it. Jim was thrown off, but managed to land on his feet. He was ready to take Darren on if he had to in order to calm him down, but the big guy simply fell forward and crashed to the ground.

Chapter Twenty-One

A gust of wind exploded over the area, circling like a mini tornado, letting loose a screeching cry before shooting into the woods, leaving a wake of broken tree limbs and falling leaves behind.

“What the hell was that?” Gwen asked. She was kneeling next to Melinda now, making sure the girl was all right. Darren had shoved her pretty hard. She stood and saw Shay coming from the brush, pieces of forest debris clinging to her hair. She looked okay.

“How’s Paul?” Gwen asked. “Mel’s going to be fine…” Her words faded away at seeing the look on Jim’s face.

“I think…Paul’s dead,” he said.

“What?” Shay asked.

Gwen hurried over to Paul, almost hesitating when she saw him. His eyes were open, unblinking. She knelt and felt for a pulse.

“Oh my God,” Shay said. “Do something, Gwen.”

Gwen knelt next to Paul, already knowing he was dead. His throat was crushed, his eyes lifeless. Her stomach felt queasy. She turned to look at Shay. “He’s gone.”

“No,” Shay said, shaking her head. She shoved Gwen out of the way. “Come on, baby, wake up. Wake up.”

Gwen looked at Jim, put a hand over her mouth. Tears rimmed her eyes and she blinked them away. Jim looked stunned. “Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“Paul’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that,” Shay said, and slapped Paul’s cheek.

Gwen grabbed her from behind and pulled her up. “He’s gone, sweetie.”

Jim couldn’t believe this was happening. His best friend was dead, killed by Darren. Friends killing friends. None of this made any sense, including the screaming wind that had kicked up.

“I…” Shay said, then fell quiet. She looked at Darren, the big guy face down on the ground. Her face scrunched into a grimace of hate. “He killed him.”

“Guys?” Melinda said.

Everyone turned to see Melinda sitting up.

“You!” Shay screamed, pointing. “This is your fault.” Shay broke free from Gwen and ran at Melinda.

Jim moved quickly and wrapped Shay up into his arms. She fought to break free. “Let me go. She got Paul killed. I’m going to strangle her. Let me go.”

“Stop it, Shay,” Jim shouted. “Something’s going on here. Can’t you see that? We need to figure it out.”

“Screw that,” Gwen said. “We need to get off this island and call the cops.”

Melinda stood on shaky feet, her eyes darting around. She looked frightened and confused.

“Let me go, Jim,” Shay said.

“You promise to relax?”

“For now.”

Jim released her, staying ready in the event he needed to react.

Shay launched a ball of spit at Melinda. “I’m gong to make sure your boyfriend spends the rest of his life in jail.”

“Guys,” Melinda said. “Something’s not right. That wasn’t me before. I couldn’t stop myself. It was like someone else was making me do things.”

“Shut the fuck up before I beat your ass,” Shay said.

“Paul didn’t try and rape me…” Melinda glanced down at Paul’s body. She covered her mouth. “Oh my God, is he…?

“Yeah, he’s dead, you whore,” Shay said, then charged toward Melinda, but Jim was ready and grabbed her. “You don’t get to say his name. Don’t say his name.”

“Paul didn’t want to hurt me,” Melinda said. She shook her head. “I mean, I came on to him, but it wasn’t me. I was sitting in the chair by the fire and then all of a sudden I couldn’t move, yet my body did move. It felt like I was burning up inside. Something else was controlling me. I never even wanted to talk to Paul.”

“Nice try,” Shay said, “but we aren’t buying it.”

“Wait,” Jim said. He released Shay. “Why would she say Paul didn’t attack her, after having told us he had?”

“I don’t know, but she’s fucking crazy,” Shay said. “Darren’s going to jail and she’s going to a psych home.”

Movement from Jim’s left caught his attention. Darren was coming around.

“Shit, he’s waking up,” Shay said, and kicked Darren in the ribs and the head before Jim grabbed her.

Darren grunted and rolled onto his back, putting a hand to his head.

Jim wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Shay had the right idea and Darren needed to be knocked out again, then tied up. He didn’t know what to do.

“What do we do?” Gwen asked. She picked up a branch that had been lying on the ground.

Jim spun Shay around so she could look at him. “Paul was my best friend,” he said. “I’m all messed up in the head right now, but we need to stay calm, okay?”

“I can’t promise anything, but there’s no way I want to be here anymore. We need to leave, get the cops.”

“Okay, but I need you all to get behind me until we see what’s up with Darren.”

Gwen moved toward Jim, but Melinda grabbed her wrist. “Mel, let go of me.”

“Wait,” Melinda said. “I’m telling you guys. I wasn’t myself. And I don’t think Darren was either. There’s something going on. I think I was drugged.”

Jim thought for a moment, fear taking hold of him. Melinda’s words hit him like a punch to the gut. It was the island, had to be. Everything in his head told him to run. Leave them all and run, but he couldn’t do that. He should’ve stayed away, made his friends change their minds about the camping spot. Should’ve listened to his grandparents and parents.

Darren sat up, rubbing his head. “What the hell happened?”

Startled, Jim took a step back. He needed to be the strong one, appear unafraid. “You feeling okay, buddy?”

“Fuck that,” Shay said. “I hope he feels like shit. You murdered Paul. You’re going to prison, asshole, and I hope you take it up the ass every day.”

“What?” Darren said, clearly confused. Then his mouth dropped open. “Paul.” He sprang to his feet and stumbled forward, crashing to the ground.

“Take it easy,” Jim said, but stood on guard in case he needed to protect himself and the others.

Darren sat up. “I don’t understand…” He looked at his hands. “Did I…” He looked at Jim.

Jim nodded. “Paul’s dead.”

“No. That wasn’t me. I remember… I wasn’t in control. I couldn’t stop myself. All this heat racked my body when…when I was next to Melinda. Then I lost all control over my body and attacked Paul.”

“You and your girlfriend work on this story?” Shay asked. “Well, forget it. No one believes either of you. Kiss your NFL career goodbye.”

Darren got to his feet, seeming to not have heard Shay’s comments. “My head is all foggy. I don’t understand any of this. I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t me. You got to believe me, Jim.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Jim said, just wanting his friend to stay calm.

“Fuck you,” Shay said. “I’ve had enough of this shit. “Screw waiting until we get off this rock, I’m calling the cops.” She pulled out her cell phone.

“Stop,” Jim said. He couldn’t believe how quickly things had gone to hell, but he needed to sort them out. Paul was dead, Darren had killed him, and both people were talking about something controlling them.

“Damn phone won’t get a signal,” Shay said. “I was texting back at the camp.”

“Something is definitely wrong here,” Jim said, feeling anxious. “I mean wrong in a really messed up way.”

“Yeah,” Gwen agreed. “Look at Melinda and Darren. They’re both confused, frazzled. How do you explain that they both had no control over themselves?”

“Maybe Darren knew all along about Mel’s cheating ass,” Shay said, “and together they worked on a story to kill Paul.”

“Stop it, Shay,” Gwen said. “This is serious shit we’re in.”

“You know what?” Shay said, putting a hand on her hip. She waved her finger in the air. “I don’t need to stay here for this shit. I’m leaving, and if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll scratch their eyes out.” She turned to head down the path.

Gwen grabbed her by the shoulder in an attempt to stop her. “Wait—”

Shay pivoted around and shoved her away. She held out her fists, ready to fight. “Get the hell away from me.” She shook her head. “You’re my best friend, but if you want to stay here with this murdering piece of trash, then that’s your business. Leaving is mine.”

“Guys,” Darren said, still sitting on the ground. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t myself. I couldn’t control anything. I saw myself choking Paul, but couldn’t stop. As much as I wanted to hurt him I never wanted him dead. I don’t even know when or how I got knocked out. Did one of you hit me over the head?”

“No one laid a hand on you,” Gwen said.

“Then what happened?” Darren asked.

Jim looked at the ring on his finger. “I grabbed you…touched you with this ring. It’s the witch that’s doing all this. She’s real and she’s here.” Jim quickly told them the story of the ring.

“Oh my God,” Melinda said. “It’s got to be the witch then.”

“Enough,” Gwen said. “There’s no witch.”

“Oh, I think there is,” Jim said. “There really is. How else do you explain Mel’s and Darren’s stories? Both of them feeling intense heat rack their bodies, then losing control.”

“We need to get off the island,” Jim said.

“Wait, what about Steve and Julie?” Melinda asked. “Where the hell have they been? I’m not leaving without them.”

“Me either,” Jim agreed. “We’ll find them, and then get the hell out of here.”

“No, we won’t,” Shay said, coming back down the trail.

“Why not?” Jim asked.

“The canoes are gone.”

Jim’s legs grew shaky as all the energy seemed to get sucked from his body. His breathing grew shallow. He was having a panic attack. They were trapped on the island. He had the ring, which made him feel better, protected, if the story about it was true, and why wouldn’t it be? Somehow, it must’ve protected him and hurt the witch when he laid his hand on Darren. Expelled the bitch.

“Okay, we need to stay close together,” Jim said. “I know this is all very hard to believe, but I think the legend is true.”

“I can’t believe you people are buying this crap about a witch,” Shay said, shaking her head in disgust.

“I don’t know, Shay,” Melinda said. “I’m starting to.”

“Don’t fucking talk to me, bitch.”

“Wait a minute,” Jim said. “You pulled those nails from the ground, right?”

“So?”

“You said they were old, probably special,” Jim said. “They had strange markings on them?”

“Again, so?”

“So maybe they were there for a reason. I mean you said it yourself. There’s no explanation why the clearing is like that. Those spikes must’ve been there for a reason, right in front of the rusty old pole. I bet that’s where the witch was burned, and by pulling those things up, she was released from her prison.”

“I think you’ve all lost it,” Shay said. She pulled at her own hair and screamed, clearly losing it. Her eyes narrowed to slits. She looked at Jim. “You’re all in on this together, aren’t you?”

“No one’s in on anything,” Gwen said, stepping forward. She threw her arms up. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you see some strange shit is going on? I don’t want to believe in any legend either, but I’m starting to think it’s real.”

Shay started to speak, but said nothing.

“Enough of this shit,” Jim said. “We need to find Steve and Julie, then leave.”

“How? The boats are gone,” Gwen said.

“We swim,” Darren said.

“As much as that black water scares me, I’ll do it, but I’m not waiting around for anyone.” Shay glanced at Darren. “Not with murderers hanging around.”

“Shay,” Melinda said, sounding a little angry for the first time, “it isn’t like that. Darren wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know that.”

“You’re the one who caused all this,” Shay said, taking a step toward Melinda. “Couldn’t keep your legs closed while your man was away.”

“Calm down, Shay,” Jim said. “You’re not helping.”

“Eat shit,” Shay said. “Paul was your best friend and you’re just going to side with these two, one being a killer?”

“Shay, damn it,” Jim said, losing his cool. “Something else is going on here. Can’t you see that?”

“All I see are fools, who I thought were my friends.” She looked at Gwen. “You coming, or staying?”

“I don’t want to leave until we find Steve and Julie.”

“They’re better off wherever they are,” Shay said, practically yelling. “Safe and away from all this shit.” She was fuming now, her chest heaving in and out. “You know what? Fuck you all.” She held up her middle fingers. “I’m done here, and when I come back, I’m going to bring the police with me.”

Shay turned to leave when her feet were yanked out from under her. She collapsed to the ground with a thud. Vines were wrapped around her ankles, trailing into the woods. “Oh, what the fuck is—” Shay words were cut short, replaced by a high-pitched scream. The vines had slid up and around her calves.

Jim couldn’t believe what he had seen. He dove to help her, but was too late, as he watched her get dragged into the forest, her arms flopping like a rag doll’s.

“What the fuck was that?” Melinda said, now glued to Darren’s side.

“I’m going after her,” Jim said. He scooped the machete off of the ground. “You guys go back to the camp, find Steve and Julie, then get the hell off the island.”

“I’ll come with you,” Darren said.

“No, you stay with the girls,” Jim said. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got the ring.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jim moved as quickly as possible, following the sound of Shay’s screams. He reached into his back pocket for his flashlight and dropped it. It was too dark to find, so he just ran. Branches tore at his flesh, poked and prodded him. He swung the machete with reckless abandon, hoping to clear whatever might be in his way. He tripped over branches, crashed into tree trunks and fell hard whenever a downed branch or log tripped him up. The moonlight hardly made a dent in the above canopy. Jim’s vision had adjusted to the dark, but without a flashlight, he was running virtually blind.

Shay kept screaming, begging for help, clearly panicked. But Jim heard pain in her cries as well. He moved faster. Something jabbed him in his right eye. He flinched as pain shot through his skull, but he kept going. Bugs flew into his mouth, tickling the back of his throat. He spat most out, but swallowed some. He didn’t care. Shay was in trouble and needed his help. The witch was real, and it seemed like his and Steve’s rings were the only things that could protect the group.

Jim’s cheeks burned from scrapes. His right eye felt like it was swelling, his already awful field of vision growing smaller. Something sticky engulfed his head. He pawed at his face, removing a huge spider’s web. He imagined the eight-legged insect crawling through his hair and swatted his head. He hated spiders. It seemed like a silly thing to worry about, especially now, but the thought of it entangled in his hair was unnerving. He swiped at his face, ears and hair again, making sure the spider wasn’t there.

Shay’s cries had stopped. A chill went up his spine. The crackling of forest debris under his feet was all he heard now, making him feel even more alone, vulnerable. He had a machete and the ring, reassurance surging through him again. He wondered why the witch hadn’t attacked him. If he was the one with the ring, why wouldn’t she want to take him out first? Maybe she couldn’t. He wished he’d listened more to his grandparents and learned all about the legend, the ring included. If he was invincible to the witch, then he’d have some advantage in dealing with her, but he just wasn’t sure.

Shay’s screams started again. They sounded like they came from a place of excruciating pain, and Jim knew she was being tortured. He broke from the thick woods into a small clearing. The change in light was almost overpowering. He winced, his wounded eye feeling as if a knife were lodged in it. He was thankful to be out of the woods, with its clawing, slicing fingers, but the sight before him was horrifying, something from a nightmare, and for a moment, he wished he hadn’t followed Shay.

She was suspended about six feet off the ground. Her arms and legs were stretched out by vines leading back into the forest. Her head hung low, but he could see her face. It was bruised as if beaten on, and lined with cuts, caked in blood. Her left eye had swelled closed and looked like a plum. Twigs and leaves clung to her hair. Her dress was in tatters, revealing numerous scrapes and gashes covering her flesh. A tree limb of decent size was protruding from her left side, dripping with blood.

Jim lost his breath, falling to one knee. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d failed. Shay was dead. He made a fist, feeling the iron between his fingers. Anger bubbled beneath his skin. He had to believe he was all that stood between the witch and his friends. It was up to him to save them. He rose to his feet and started forward, feeling rejuvenated.

Shay stirred.

Jim paused, surprised. “Shay?”

Her head rose, and she looked down at Jim. Blood trickled from her nose and mouth. “Jim…help me.”

Jim hurried to her.

Shay’s arms and legs were pulled taut, the vines retracting. She cried out in pain. Jim stopped, machete raised. Her body convulsed, her good eye rolling back into her head.

“You are all mine,” Shay said, but the voice was high-pitched and scratchy, clearly not Shay’s.

Goose bumps rippled along Jim’s flesh.

“Fuck you,” he said. He lowered the machete, thinking he wouldn’t need it to free Shay. He had the ring. Laying it against the vines might expel the witch, like it had when he touched Darren. At least, he hoped. He started forward.

Shay’s eye returned to normal. Her body sagged. “Jim?” she said, looking at him, then screamed as the vines tightened and pulled. The flesh on her shoulders tore, blood squirting forth. “Ahhhhhhhh, help me, Jim—”

Jim reached out to grab a vine, but was too late, as Shay’s arms and legs were ripped from their sockets, the limbs dragged into the forest. Blood exploded from all four wounds.

Jim shielded himself as the red stuff covered him.

He staggered back, wiping at his face. He cleared his eyes and saw that Shay was still alive, her eyes in shock, body trembling. Blood continued to flow from the wounds, but more like a leaky sewer pipe. There was nothing Jim could do for her.

“Jim…” Shay said, whispering.

More vines came from the darkness and shot into Shay’s gaping holes, causing her to resemble some nightmarish experiment from a science fiction horror movie. Jim saw the things slithering under her flesh, like some kind of flesh serpents.

“Kill me, Jim,” Shay mumbled, spitting up gobs of chunky blood. Shay’s body collapsed in on itself, as if she were nothing more than an inflatable doll. The vines pulsed, each one resembling an anaconda after a meal, except the meal moved rapidly along their bodies. The vines were eating Shay from the inside out, like a spider eats its catch.

Jim shook with fear, watching his surroundings spin. He lost his balance and fell. His brain couldn’t handle what was happening, the shock too much. He needed to make sense of it all, but wasn’t able to.

The witch is real.

The witch is real.

Run.

Run.

He got to his feet, shook his head, then put the ring in his mouth and bit down, feeling its strength. He reminded himself that he wore it, and that he was all that stood between the witch and his friends.

He heard the sound of Shay’s body being emptied, the sloshing and sucking, then the distant voices of his friends, calling out to Steve and Julie. His friends—they needed him.

He took one more look at Shay, swallowed hard, then took off toward the camp.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The campfire crackled with low flames. Low shadows danced around the clearing’s perimeter. No one wanted to go near the tree line. Everyone was afraid something would reach out and snatch them. Shay’s distant screams could be heard, sending chills through the group. Darren kept saying he should’ve gone with Jim, helped him out. Gwen kept reminding him he was needed where he was. The big guy wasn’t himself, acting jumpy and timid.

“They should’ve at least answered us by now,” Gwen said, arms hugged close to her body, hands pinned under her armpits.

“Julie!” Melinda called.

“This can’t be good,” Darren said. “I hate to say it, but maybe they aren’t coming back.”

Melinda spun on Darren, anger carved into her face. “Don’t say that. Why would you think such a thing? They’re probably just…just…”

Darren shook his head. Even with everything that had happened, everything he knew, he still loved Melinda. He wanted to scream at her, tell her she was a whore, but it just wasn’t in him. His heart still beat a little faster when he was around her, even now. He watched as she called out her cousin’s name, saw the hope in her eyes and he loved her more for it.

He feared the worst, and probably should’ve kept his mouth shut, but it was beginning to become obvious that the witch had gotten to them. Sure, there was the chance they were someplace where sound didn’t travel well, and they were so enamored with each other that nothing else mattered, but he didn’t think so. Bad things were happening, and those two having gone off into the woods almost guaranteed they weren’t going to return.

He thought about what he’d done, killed Paul. The whole thing seemed like a dream, like it wasn’t real, but then again, it was. He had strangled his friend to death. He wasn’t sure he believed in the whole witch story, but it was as plausible as him killing Paul, he guessed, even though it wasn’t really himself that had done it. He’d seen Shay get dragged off by vines. Wasn’t that proof enough that something evil was happening to them?

No matter what happened tonight, he needed to make sure Melinda was safe. He couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to her.

“We need to leave, now,” Darren said. He reached out and grabbed Melinda’s wrist.

“Not without Julie,” she said, and yanked her hand free.

“I think Darren’s right,” Gwen said, glancing around, looking worried. “If one of us—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but if one of us gets possessed again, we might all be done for.”

“You mean me,” Darren said. “If I get possessed again, you won’t be able to stop me. I could easily kill you all.”

“Look, we don’t know exactly what’s happening,” Melinda said, “but yeah, if you go crazy again, we don’t stand much of a chance. But I’m not leaving without Julie. I can’t.”

Gwen sighed and ran her hands over her hair. “If Julie and Steve are still on the island, we’ll find them, but it’s stupid for us to stay here. Paul’s dead and something on this island wants us dead, too. We should get the police, let them come and do their thing.”

“What about Jim?” Melinda asked.

“I’ll find him,” Darren said. “You two shouldn’t be around me, not without Jim present. Get to the water and swim to shore. Me and Jim will find Julie.”

They heard a rustling from the woods. Something was coming straight for them, moving fast. The girls hid behind Darren, who picked up a log and was holding it like a club.

“Jim?” Gwen called.

“It’s me,” Jim replied. “I’m coming.”

“You see,” Darren said, turning around. Relief flooded through him. “Jim’s fine. We’ll get Steve and Julie. You guys get to the water and—” Darren cried out in pain. He arched his back and reached behind him, turning and struggling to pull out what was stabbing him.

The girls screamed and jumped back, Darren’s back revealing the truth—a vine had shot from the woods and was sticking out of him.

Darren felt the familiar, intense heat enter him, as if he was being pumped with liquid flame. His body went rigid. “R-run…” he managed to say. The searing pain spread throughout his body, and he knew he was being possessed again. He still had control over his left arm and reached around to grab the vine. He yanked and felt his insides pull, as if the vine was entangled throughout his body. His arm quickly grew hot and it was no longer under his control.

Gwen screamed, then grabbed a shocked-looking Melinda by the collar and pulled her, hoping to get her to move, but Melinda wound up tripping over her own feet and crashed to the ground.

Darren watched in horror as he sprang forward and backhanded Gwen. The sound of his hand colliding with her cheek thundered across the clearing. Gwen cried out as she flew. She hit the ground with a thud and went silent.

Melinda got to her feet and ran to Gwen. Darren felt his facial muscles pull back into a grin as he sprinted behind Melinda. Darren screamed for her to watch out, but nothing came from his mouth. He reached out and grabbed her, then spun her around so that she faced him. He cocked back his arm and launched a fist, connecting squarely with Melinda’s jaw.

Nooooooo! he yelled in his head, feeling as if he might explode, and saw his love’s torment in slow motion.

Melinda’s eyes rolled back as her head snapped to the side. Her jaw moved ahead of her face and he knew it was broken, maybe shattered. Teeth exploded forth, followed by speckles of blood. Her body twirled like a top before it crumbled to the ground.

Darren needed to stop this, to beat the witch or whatever was controlling him. He was strong, powerful, but no matter how hard he tried, his body wouldn’t obey. He glanced over to where Gwen lay. She was getting up, moaning, in obvious discomfort.

Darren stomped over to her, feeling the heat intensify within him. He snatched her from the ground by the shirt collar and jeans, then heaved her across the camp as if she were a bale of hay. Gwen’s arms flailed wildly, her legs bicycling. She hit the ground hard, a plume of dust exploding from beneath her. She lay twisted and unmoving, arms and legs bent awkwardly.

A blur of motion caught Darren’s attention. He turned to see Melinda coming at him, one of the hot dog skewers held high above her head. She meant to hurt Darren, and he was happy about it. Her eyes were wide with intent, but a shiver ran through him when he saw the lower part of her face sway and jiggle as she ran, her jaw unhinged and broken.

Melinda came in recklessly, but fast. She brought the skewer down, pain evident on her face. Darren welcomed the blow, anything to keep him from killing her. He didn’t want to die, praying the damage wouldn’t be too bad, but enough to stop him from being able to hurt the girls. But then his arm went up and he caught Melinda by her wrist, stopping her futile attack with ease. With his free arm, he elbowed Melinda in the nose, crushing it. Her head jerked back as she stumbled away. The skewer slipped from her grasp and clunked to the dirt floor. Blood gushed from her nostrils, covering her rubbery-looking jaw in red. The intense, killer glare was gone from her eyes, replaced by a look of disbelief and shock as she sat on her ass.

Darren bent and scooped up the skewer. He tossed it from hand to hand, eyeing Melinda. She looked up at him. Her body trembled. She tried crab-walking backward, but Darren jumped and landed on her, straddling her midsection.

Melinda let loose an awkward scream, her unhinged jaw clearly affecting her speech. She struggled with her arms, punching and swatting at him. Her blows were less threatening than a baby’s. He swatted her arms aside and pressed the skewer’s point between her breasts. She put her arms on his wrists, trying to stop him from stabbing her, but he wasn’t even trying yet, only resting the tip against her, toying with her. He stared into her eyes. Tears fell down the sides of her face.

“Darren, please…I know you’re in there,” she said.

“Yes, he is,” his mouth said, but it wasn’t his voice. Melinda’s eyes widened with fright.

Darren leaned forward, putting his weight on the cooking implement’s handle. The spear punctured Melinda’s flesh. Red liquid pooled, like water from an underground spring. Darren’s eyes were locked with Melinda’s, and he saw the pain in her eyes as the needle-like tool bit deeper. She cried out, head jerking back and forth. She let go of his arms, the strength no longer there to do so. The metal sank deeper, piercing the breast bone, finding the heart. Blood leaked from her mouth. She shivered, struggling for freedom, for breath.

Darren grinned, not taking his eyes from hers. With a final shove, he pinned Melinda to the ground, the skewer piercing half a foot of soil beneath her. More blood oozed from her mouth, thick and dark, almost black in color. Her eyes practically popped from their sockets as her body went rigid, and then she was still, her body limp, lifeless. Darren had watched the light go out in his love’s eyes, and went insane inside his own head, kicking, yelling, scratching and clawing, pounding and stomping. He promised to kill the witch, make her suffer forever. She would beg for him to kill her, and he would, but not before devouring her, letting her dissolve and melt in his intestines, turning her into the excrement that she was, only to excrete her and let her waste away.

A scream made him turn his head. Gwen was standing, hands over her mouth, face glistening with tears. “You, you killed her…”

Darren hollered at her to run from inside the prison. Why hadn’t she run? He pulled the skewer from Melinda’s corpse and stood.

Jim heard screams. Something terrible was happening. He pushed himself harder, slashing blindly in front of him as he ran, barely dodging trees and low-hanging limbs. He took more damage, pokes and scrapes across his already bruised and bloodied flesh. He was sure the witch was at the camp, tormenting his friends. She had to know he was coming. It felt as if the forest was clawing at him, the trees her fingers, slowing him down. He took pleasure each time he snapped or sliced a branch.

The screams were right in front of him now. He saw the light from the fire. He ran harder, knowing he could be the difference between his friends living and dying. His right foot landed awkwardly, the ground uneven. His ankle turned. Pain exploded, and he went down. He braced himself with his hands, making sure to grip the machete tightly so he wouldn’t lose it. He slammed shoulder-first into a tree trunk, stopping more abruptly, the pain white-hot.

He rolled over, fearing the worst from both injuries. He flexed his arm and shoulder. It hurt, but he was okay. It wasn’t broken, but he realized he no longer had the machete. The impact had jarred it from his grip.

He searched the ground on hands and knees, sifting through leaves, rocks and other forest debris. His ankle was on fire, but the pain was fading. Something stung his fingers. He pulled his hand back, afraid something had bitten him. He put a finger into his mouth and tasted blood. He returned his hand to the ground, felt the steel of the machete’s blade, walked his fingers down it and grabbed the handle.

Relief flooded through him, but it was only for a second. Screams came from the camp again.

Using a tree, Jim pulled himself up and balanced on his good leg. He tested his injured ankle, shifting his weight from foot to foot, feeling only a little pain, but nothing he couldn’t deal with. Maybe later if it swelled it would hurt more, but for now he was okay.

He burst through the tree line less than thirty seconds later. Melinda was lying on the ground, her face broken, almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were open, unblinking, but it was her chest that told the whole story—a blood-soaked mess that dripped down her sides and pooled around her.

Darren was facing away from him, walking toward Gwen. He had a hot dog skewer in his right hand, the thing dripping with blood.

Jim had been careless. He never should’ve left the girls with Darren. But he’d had to try to save Shay.

Jim ran at Darren, forgetting everything except that he needed to save Gwen, and if it meant stopping Darren by any means, then so be it.

The big guy must have heard him coming, or maybe it was Gwen’s eyes that gave Jim away. Darren spun around as Jim reached him, the ring exposed and held out like a superhero in flight. All Jim had to do was make contact with Darren and the witch would be expelled. Darren’s eyes grew wide, his focus on Jim’s hand, but it was too late as the ring came into contact with Darren’s flesh. The big guy howled in agony and was thrown back. He and Jim both crashed to the ground. A shimmer of hot air passed over Jim, circled the immediate area, then shot with a banshee’s shriek into the forest.

Jim pushed himself to his feet and was met by Gwen, who wrapped her arms around him. She cried, telling him that Melinda was dead. Jim wanted to be there for her, but they needed to leave. He pried her loose. “I know everything really sucks right now, but we need to get the hell out of here.”

She nodded and wiped away her tears. She turned toward Darren, his large form face-first in the dirt. “What about him? I don’t think I can be around him. He killed Melinda.”

“It wasn’t him, Gwen,” Jim reminded her. “It was the witch. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“We can’t leave him here. The witch will kill him.”

“Okay, we’ll leave, with him. Did you find Shay?”

Jim looked at her, frowned, and shook his head.

“Oh my God,” Gwen said, shaking. “Shay’s dead. They’re all dead. We’re going to be killed, aren’t we?”

Jim grabbed her by the shoulders. “No. We’ll be fine. I’ve got the ring. It will protect us.”

“You, not us.”

“As long as I’m with you, you’re safe.” Jim let go of her. He went over to Darren and knelt, then shook his friend. “Wake up, buddy, Come on.”

Darren stirred, groaning. He rolled over and opened his eyes. “What…happened?”

“We need to leave, buddy, okay?” Jim said.

Darren sat up, rubbing his head.

Jim stood, holding out his arm to help his friend up. Darren took it and got to his feet. The big guy was woozy as was evident by his shaky legs. Darren eyed Jim, then Gwen, who was hiding behind Jim. Darren’s eyes then went to something behind them, and Jim knew it was Melinda’s body. Darren shoved Jim hard, knocking him and Gwen a few steps back. Jim raised the machete in front of him, but relaxed when Darren didn’t charge.

“Stay the hell away from me, the both of you,” Darren said. He put his hands to the sides of his head and looked like he might crush it. “I. Killed. Her.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jim said. “You were possessed. The witch knows how strong you are, so she picked you.” He stepped toward his friend.

Darren held out his arms and took a step back. “Jim, I’m warning you to stay away.”

“It wasn’t you,” Jim pleaded. “Tell him, Gwen.”

Gwen hesitated, then stepped out from behind Jim. “Darren, I…it wasn’t you. You know that. Melinda knows that, and she’d want you to be safe. To leave.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “We need to go before the witch returns.”

Darren shook his head. A tear rolled down his cheek. “You guys go. I can’t leave. Don’t want to leave. I watched her die. Stared into her eyes and watched the life leave them. She was terrified.”

Jim squeezed the machete and shook his head in frustration. “Enough people have died tonight. I’m not going to let you be one of them, too. Come with us.”

Darren looked up at Jim with sad eyes. He looked ready to fall down. “Okay, fine. For Melinda.”

“Good,” Jim said. He and Gwen turned to leave. Jim was shoved forward, feeling the machete get ripped from his grip. “What the hell?” He spun around, put his arms back to protect Gwen.

“I don’t feel right inside,” Darren said, tapping his head with the side of the machete. “Something is missing. I felt it earlier, after the witch left me the first time, but now it’s worse.” He shook his head. “Something isn’t right in me anymore.” He put both hands around the weapon’s handle and pointed the tip at his throat.

“Darren, don’t,” Jim said, springing forward to stop his friend, but he was too late, and watched the blade plunge into Darren’s throat. Blood spewed like a burst hose, caking the blade in red.

Gwen screamed.

Darren stumbled around like a drunk, coughing and gagging. He fell to his knees, smiled at Jim, then collapsed face-first to the ground. The machete was shoved farther in by Darren’s weight and poked out the back of his skull.

Jim grabbed Gwen’s hand and was ready to take off down the trail, but stopped himself.

“What is it?” Gwen asked.

Jim stared at his dead friend. He released Gwen’s hand and stood over the corpse. “We need the weapon,” he said.

With a grimace of disgust, he gripped the machete’s handle with both hands and placed his foot against Darren’s head. Grunting with effort, he pulled. The machete came free with a wet, sloshing sound, as if Darren’s body was a large piece of human lasagna. The blade dripped with gore. He wiped the hacking implement off on his dead friend’s back, then grabbed Gwen by her hand and took off down the trail.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jim and Gwen reached the grassy beach area. They were bent over and breathing hard. Running had been a nightmare, with no flashlight and worrying that the vines would snatch Gwen and take her away. Jim kept his ring-wearing hand clasped to her hand, which slowed them down a little as Gwen was a much faster runner than him. He hoped that by her touching the ring, she would be safe, but he really had no way of knowing if his assumption was true, or if it was just the ring-wearer that was protected.

“Who goes there?” a deep voice asked.

Jim and Melinda looked up, Jim ready with the machete. A flashlight beam came to life, shining in their eyes, making it impossible to see who it was. “It’s Jim Ryan and Gwen Carrington.”

“Please, we need help,” Gwen said.

The light moved to reveal the sheriff’s leathery face, the many years of smoking damaging his skin.

“Oh my God, Sheriff,” Jim said. He and Gwen hurried over to the man.

“Jim, what the hell is going on?” the sheriff asked.

“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Jim answered. “But we need to leave, now.”

“Have you seen, Billy?”

Jim shook his head. “No, why, is he supposed to be here?”

“The canoes,” Gwen said. “That’s how our canoes disappeared.”

“I got a call from Billy. He was in trouble—”

“Sheriff, we need to leave,” Gwen said. “People are dead.”

“Dead?” the man asked. He looked stricken.

“Sheriff, we haven’t seen Billy,” Jim said, “but you have to believe us when we say that we need to leave before—”

“It’s the witch,” the man said, flatly.

“We’re not making this up, Sheriff,” Gwen said. “It is the witch.”

Jim looked at Gwen, then at the sheriff. Even in the low light, he saw fear in the man’s eyes, and he knew the man wasn’t mocking them. “You believe it, don’t you, Sheriff?”

The man nodded, and slid his flashlight into his belt loop.

“Then you see why we have to go,” Gwen said. “She’s killed all of our friends.”

“We can’t leave,” the sheriff said.

“What?” Gwen asked, her voice frantic. “Why not?”

“Because she’s loose now. Over the years, people have gone missing. Reported strange things, sinking boats and whatnot, but nothing like this.”

“She’s definitely loose,” Jim said. “I think it’s our fault. Our friend, Shay, removed some railroad spikes with strange markings on them over by the clearing. That’s when all the weirdness and killing started.”

“I know the place,” the sheriff said. “We need to stop her from getting off this island.”

“What we need to do, Sheriff, is leave and tell the authorities,” Gwen said. “Get some people who are used to dealing with this kind of shit, if there are such people. Let them find your son.”

“I called in my location.” The man paused, his lip quivering. “My son’s already dead.”

“I’m leaving,” Gwen insisted, heading toward the water. “I’ll swim if I have to.”

Jim grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait.”

“Jim?” Gwen said. “We need to leave.”

“Sheriff, can the witch get off the island?” Jim asked.

“I’m not sure. If you people removed something that was holding her here, then I’d think so. From what I know, she’s been trapped here since the early 1900’s, and it’s impossible for her to leave unless she’s gained enough power, which will allow her to break free from her true cage, her bones. We can’t allow that to happen.”

“How do you know all this?” Jim asked.

“Knowledge passed down from parents and grandparents. I’m no expert, but if she’s loose like you say, then we need to put her back.”

“Put her back?” Gwen asked. “And I suppose you know how to do that?”

“Yes, I do,” the sheriff said, closing his eyes.

“No,” Gwen said. “She’ll kill us. If we leave, they’ll be no one to possess and she won’t be able to get off the island.”

“Until the next person comes along,” Jim said, understanding why they needed to stop the witch tonight. He was ready to hear what the sheriff had to say. He turned to Gwen. “We’ve got the ring, remember? The witch can’t hurt us as long as we have it.”

“Make that two rings,” the sheriff said, holding his hand out for them to see. He slid the ring off and tossed it to Gwen.

“What about you?” Gwen asked. “Don’t you need it?”

“I’ve feared this bitch for a very long time. Let my son down. Got him killed. If it wasn’t the witch, it would’ve been something else, but since it was her, she’s got to pay. Now I have a chance to make this right and avenge my son’s death.” The sheriff removed his gun belt and tossed it away, then spoke to a stunned Jim and Gwen.

“Listen closely,” he said. “I’m going to call her and allow her to possess me. I’m the only one left on the island besides you two, and you both have rings. She wants off of this island, so she’s going to come. You two will be safe from her control as long as you have those rings on, but she can still hurt you by using me.” The sheriff held up his arms, indicating he was unarmed. “Hence why I got rid of the gun belt, got it?”

They both nodded, and the sheriff continued.

“She won’t want to, but she’ll have to deal with the both of you, as you’re the only ones preventing her from leaving the island.” He held up his finger to emphasize his next point and shook his head. “Don’t touch her with the ring unless you absolutely have to, like if your life is in danger. All you’ll do is exorcise her, and then we’ll have to do this all over again.”

“We got it, Sheriff,” Jim said, “but what’s your part in all this?”

He pulled a small flask from his pocket, unscrewed the top and took a long swig, then put it back. “I’m going to die.”

Silence filled the air for a moment. There were no bullfrog calls or chirping crickets, simply nothing but still air. A warm breeze swept through the area. Jim flinched, thinking it was the witch, then realized it was nothing. His mouth had gone dry, and he wished he had a bottle of water.

“Come again?” Gwen said.

“Jim, you’re going to take that machete and cut off my head.”

Jim’s mouth hung open and the machete nearly slipped from his grip. “I’m not killing you, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, that’s crazy,” Gwen said.

The sheriff stepped up to him and grabbed him by the collar. “You will or I’m going to wind up slaughtering your girl here, then you. She’ll want you to watch, to suffer. You’re an original of the town. She’ll do it without a second’s hesitation, so make sure you get me before I get you.” He let go of Jim and stepped back. “It’s the only way to trap her.”

“Trap her?” Jim asked, feeling weak in the knees.

“This is nuts,” Gwen said, pacing. “We can’t kill the sheriff. There has to be another way.”

“Damn it,” the sheriff said, harshly. “There’s no time for this shit. You don’t do this, and she escapes, she’ll kill a lot more people. Hell, she’ll wipe out the entire town, then move on from there to the next for all I know. I’m done with this world, you hear me? And the witch needs to be stopped.”

“There’s got to be another way,” Gwen said.

The sheriff shook his head. He looked defeated. “There isn’t, and if there is, I sure as hell don’t know it.” He paused, then looked Jim in the eyes. “Are you with me?”

Jim nodded. “We’re both with you, Sheriff, don’t worry.”

“Good, because she might be here any minute and I need you to be ready.”

Gwen stopped pacing. “Fuck it. Whatever. You want to die, then so be it. Go on, what do we have to do?”

“Once I’m possessed, you’ll have to cut off my head. My soul will be released, and the body will be a temporary prison, but not for long. You’ll need to move fast. She’s killed recently, which means she’s powerful. She’ll break free eventually, but you should have time to complete the task.”

“You’ll then put one of the rings inside my mouth and leave it there, this will severely weaken her and keep her imprisoned, but make sure you place the ring inside without touching the outside flesh or you’ll expel her.”

“How do you know this will work?” Gwen asked. “I mean you could be wrong, right?”

“Nothing’s for certain, but this is what I’ve been told. As a boy, I took the tales as truth, memorized them.”

“Why wasn’t this done before?” Jim asked.

“My guess—no one wanted to volunteer to dig her up, let alone have their head removed. The witch was supposedly imprisoned, and no one really came out here.” The sheriff reached out and grabbed them both. His face was a scowl. “Are you ready to do this? There can’t be any hesitation. Get mean and nasty if you have to.” He shoved them.

Gwen started to cry.

“Jim hugged her, then said, “We’ll do it. Just call the bitch.”

The sheriff took a few steps back, then called out, “Margaret Rivers, come to me! I’m here for the taking. You cannot resist my flesh. I am the great grandson of your executioner. An original member of the community that murdered you, and I’m your only way off the island. He held out his arms, inviting her, and continued to call to her.

Jim stood ready. The machete was gripped tightly in his hand. His heart was pounding, skin lined with a cold sweat.

He stared at the sheriff, imagining how it would go down. He told himself over and over that he could do it—cut off the man’s head. He wouldn’t be murdering someone. He would be saving a town, and doing right by the man he was about to behead.

He removed himself from the situation, and made himself the star of a movie, where good must overcome evil. It wasn’t going to be easy, nor pretty, but then again, fighting evil never was. In the end, everything would work out. He was an action hero trapped in a horror movie.

Of course, those types of characters were made out to be tough, and the moviegoer never got to see what happened after the film was over—like if the hero became permanently screwed up in the head or went and saw a shrink for the rest of his life because the character was haunted by what he had done.

Thinking about what he was going to have to do, Jim imagined that he would probably need to see someone, but how the hell would he go about explaining it? He couldn’t. The whole island mess needed to be a secret or he and Gwen would have some really difficult things to explain. Come to think of it—how would they explain it all?

Damn it, he was thinking too much. Thinking at a time like this might cause him to hesitate, which might get them all killed. He could not afford a misstep.

The witch was pure evil. She had killed his friends, people he loved and cared about. People whose families would miss them, want answers to their deaths. But would there be any bodies to discover? He’d seen what happened to Shay, the vines sucking the life from her, dissolving her. Having no bodies lying around might be a good thing. The families would never get true peace, would want to know what happened to their loved ones, but at least he and Gwen would have an easier time with the authorities.

Jim cleared his head. He couldn’t worry about all that now. First things first. He focused on the sheriff, who was still himself. Jim started to worry that the witch wouldn’t come, but then the sheriff’s body stiffened.

“She’s here,” he said.

Jim’s body tensed. He raised the machete, waited. Gwen squeezed his other arm, and he ushered her behind him. “Don’t look, Gwen.”

The sheriff’s face contorted. He was clearly in pain. “She’s strong…so much heat, pain…” The man bent over, then jerked upright. His arms spasmed. He was fighting her. “She’s almost got me completely… Do it now.”

Jim brought the machete back. He didn’t move. Shit, he was hesitating.

“Can’t…hold her much…” the sheriff said.

“Do it!” Gwen shouted. “Cut his fucking head off!”

She sounded like a crazed madwoman, but it was just what Jim needed to break his frozen state. He cried out, all his focus on the sheriff. He rushed forward, ready to swing the weapon and sever the man’s head from his body.

He heard a new voice. Someone else was on the island. They were shouting something, but he couldn’t make it out. He was concentrating too much on the task at hand. No matter what, he couldn’t stop. He had to see this through. Hesitation would be his downfall. Then, like a delayed reaction, he thought he heard what the voice had said—“Freeze, police.”

That couldn’t be right, he thought. The only cop on the island was the sheriff. He didn’t see the man moving his lips to say such a thing. It must be the witch. She was messing with him, trying to get him to stop. Fuck that, he was going full steam ahead, ending the bitch.

Then Jim felt immense pressure in his chest, as if he’d run into a brick wall. His forward progress was halted, and he was shoved backward by a powerful force. His feet flew out from under him. The breath was gone from his lungs. He crashed to the ground.

Jim couldn’t move. He coughed up blood, the coppery-tasting fluid filling his palate. Something had gone terribly wrong. Pain was now radiating through him. He wanted to get up, but it felt like a car had been dropped on him.

Maybe the witch had done something, gotten through the ring’s defense. Was she inside him? He didn’t feel the heat like Darren and Melinda had. In fact, he felt the opposite—cold. It was summer, and warm out. So why did it feel like air-conditioning?

Staring up at the night sky, he saw a face come into view. It was one of the sheriff’s deputies. Jim’s mind sorted through the possibilities of what had gone wrong, and then he knew. He’d been shot. He didn’t know how badly, but it was sure getting colder by the second. He hoped Gwen was okay.

And then he knew no more.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Gwen heard the cop’s voice before he came into view. She turned and saw not one, but two deputies. Both had their guns drawn and pointed at Jim. They seemed to have come out of nowhere, like wraiths from the darkness.

Jim didn’t stop. He kept charging toward the sheriff. She had no idea if he had heard them or not, but he was going to finish the job. They were going to protect their boss. She screamed at Jim to stop.

The sound of gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the area like bolts of lightning. Jim’s shirt fluttered. His body jerked with each bullet. Red flowers bloomed across his chest, and then he fell backward.

Gwen ran toward him, but one of the cops jumped in her way and pointed his gun at her. He ordered her to get down. Her mind quickly computed the results of her not listening, and she hit the ground.

She craned her neck and saw the other cop approach Jim. She felt a knee in her back as the officer pinned her down and cuffed her. “Help him, please,” she cried.

Jim wasn’t moving. She called to him, but he just lay there. His head turned a little and she saw the vacant look in his eyes, and knew he was dead.

No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. They had a plan. The sheriff was supposed to die. Gwen stiffened when she saw the sheriff talking to the deputy who had shot Jim. No, not the sheriff, the witch!

Gwen scrambled to her feet, knocked into the deputy at her side, and took off at a run for the sheriff. Pure rage had taken over. The man needed to die. She didn’t make it more than a few feet before the deputy tackled her. With a clunk to her head, she was knocked out.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gwen sat in the worn leather chair of the common room, staring out one of the mesh-covered windows of the Hill-Mead Psychiatric Hospital. The property was garden-like on the outside, with a neatly trimmed lawn and beautiful maple and oak trees. A cobblestone walkway wound around the yard, wooden plank benches set along it. Gwen focused on nothing in particular.

A game show blared from the television that hung in the far corner of the common room. The large hall was filled with tables and chairs, where patients could sit and draw or play board games or drool.

The monotonous sound of a ping-pong ball bouncing back and forth echoed in Gwen’s ears as people played. She wished she could stuff cotton in her ears or go over to the television and turn the volume way up, but the thing was locked in a mesh cage. Burly-looking guards in white uniforms stood by the main doors, keeping a watchful eye on the patients of the hospital.

Gwen had been here for a little over two months. She was first bound to a bed, given a high dose of tranquilizers and other drugs to keep her stable and quiet. Eventually, she was allowed to have a room and joined the more stable residents, the ones she was around now.

Gwen closed her eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth on her face. She was wearing a thin, white gown with bra and panties underneath. Tan slippers covered her feet. She was quite comfortable physically, but emotionally she was a wreck. She knew what had happened on the island, but of course no one believed her. Because of her state of mind, her ramblings about a witch, her lunatic-like state, the judge had ordered her to the psychiatric hospital until it could be determined that she was able to stand trial for her part in the disappearances of her friends—the bodies never found—and her part in the attempted murder of Sheriff Montgomery.

No one had listened to her, writing her off as a druggie, but when no narcotics were found in her system, she was deemed unstable. She and Jim had killed their friends and hidden their bodies. She was questioned for hours initially, but her story remained the same—that the witch had killed them all and absorbed their bodies.

Gwen still couldn’t believe this had all happened, and on some level, was waiting to wake from the nightmare. The drugs she was currently taking helped with keeping her calm. Her head was a little foggy at times, but she welcomed the whole experience. She was trapped where she was, unable to leave. And depending on what happened when she was fit to stand trial, she might never see the outside world again. Her lawyer told her that they had no bodies, which was a good thing. Fucking lawyers, she had thought.

“Gwen?” a tender voice said from behind her, breaking her from her thoughts. She turned and saw the nurse, with her pushcart of goodies, coming toward her. “Time for your meds.” She held out a small, clear plastic cup filled with blue, green and red pills of varying shapes and sizes. They looked so pretty.

The plump woman held out the cup for Gwen to take.

Gwen reached out, and took the pills, wanting them, for they made her troubles seem much less upsetting. A news report came over the television. She paused as the plastic rim of the cup touched her bottom lip.

It was being reported that a number of Salisbury Mills residents had been found murdered, shot to death. Others were missing from their homes. Sheriff Frank Montgomery’s body was found in one of the houses, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It was being speculated that he was involved in the murders.

Gwen stared at the television screen, mouth agape. Her heart pounded, her adrenaline overpowering the meds she’d taken two hours earlier, still coursing through her system. She lowered her hand that was holding the cup of pills and two spilled out and bounced across the cold tile floor.

“Dear,” the nurse said, “you dropped your pills.” She huffed, and looked to see what Gwen was staring at, then waved a hand in front of Gwen’s face. “Hello?”

Gwen ignored her and glanced down at the cup in her hand. She shook her head, cringed, then tossed the cup away.

The nurse scowled, putting her hands on her hips and said, “That wasn’t very nice, now was it?”

Gwen sprang from her seated position and shoved the woman aside. “I was right,” she shouted, pointing at the television. “You see? I was fucking right! It was the witch! She killed them all. She’s real, as real as you and me!” Gwen ran around the room, twirling with glee, shouting over and over that she was right, and that the witch was real.

She kicked over tables and chairs, trays with food and medication on them. Along with the two men guarding the doors, more entered, and quickly brought Gwen to a stop. She kicked and screamed, demanding she be let free. She was right and they were wrong, and they looked more foolish than ever.

But all Gwen received was a needle in the arm.

Gwen came to in a small, padded white room. She knew the place well, having spent time here when she first arrived and her meds were still getting sorted out. The rubber room, as some called it. Her arms were tightly strapped in and wrapped around her mid-section, courtesy of the straightjacket she was wearing. Regardless, she was able to sit up and lean against the cushiony wall. She’d spent hours struggling against the binds when she had first been introduced to the jacket, now realizing it was useless to do so. She hated the thing, but didn’t mind the room so much. If only they’d thrown her inside it without the jacket. As a kid, she would have loved the place, and bounced around endlessly in it until she was tired and fell asleep.

Sitting against the wall, she grinned. The room was bright, quiet and peaceful, but more than that, everyone would have to believe her now. She had told them the sheriff was possessed. They’d say he had simply gone off the deep end, flipped out. That’s what they’d say, but in the back of their minds, they’d hear Gwen’s words, remember the legend and wonder if it was true. “Maybe that crazy girl was right,” they’d say.

Now, they’d want to talk to her about the island. They’d come to her for help, and listen to her story, as she had wanted to tell it. She would like to tell them to go screw themselves, and give them the finger, but she wouldn’t do any of that, at least not initially. Because more than rubbing it in their faces, she wanted to leave this hellhole and be free, so she saw herself cooperating fully.

The door to the room opened, and Doctor Goldman entered. He was a thin man, with circular spectacles and graying hair.

“Hello, Gwen,” he said, and shut the door behind him. He stared at her for a moment, smiling, but it wasn’t a kind expression.

Gwen felt her skin crawl. She’d had numerous visitations with the man since her arrival, and had always felt fine. So why was her internal warning system going off? She was anxious. There was something odd about the way the man was looking at her, almost predatory. He tilted his head like a dog watching its owner cook up a steak.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t you?” he said, taking a step toward her.

Gwen shrank back, unable to take her eyes from him.

“But you’re feeling better now, yes?” he asked.

She nodded, feeling her chest ache. “Y-yes, much.”

“Let’s get you out of that thing, shall we?” The doctor came forward and helped her up. He unbuckled the clasps and slid the jacket off. Gwen didn’t like this one bit. There was always an orderly present whenever the doctor was around and she wasn’t restrained. Did the man believe her? Was he setting her free already?

Dr. Goldman stepped back, holding the jacket in his right hand. “You were correct about the sheriff. He was possessed.”

Gwen felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. Sure, she would be believed that Sheriff Montgomery had gone crazy and was homicidal, but possessed? No, and definitely not by her doctor.

“You look confused, dear,” the doctor said.

She put a trembling hand to her lips. She already knew the answer, but had to ask. “Why do you think he was possessed?”

The doctor dropped the straightjacket and slid his hand into his white coat pocket and withdrew a scalpel. “Isn’t it obvious? I possessed him.”

Gwen’s eyes popped from their sockets. She flattened herself against the padded wall, shivering. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn’t happening, it was—the witch was inside the doctor, controlling him. She glanced down at the scalpel in his hand, then back up to his face.

“I was going to kill you,” he said, “but knowing what I know now, I’ve decided it’ll be much more fun keeping you locked up in here.”

Gwen watched in horror as the doctor stuck himself in the side of the neck with the scalpel and ran the surgical-steel tool across his throat to the other side. She screamed as blood blasted forth, covering her from head to toe. Her palate registered the tangy, coppery taste and she nearly puked. The doctor fell to his knees, smiling, as if he was the happiest man on earth.

Then the man’s smiled vanished, replaced by terror. He pawed at his throat, eyes begging for answers. Gwen saw the air shimmer around him, then around the room. The witch had left his body. Gwen’s flesh felt the heat from the witch’s spirit. She watched her transparent form swirl through the air before shooting toward her. She put up her arms in a defensive effort to block the attack, but it proved useless.

Gwen’s forearms burned with heat. The witch was inside her now. She bolted for the door, not knowing what else to do. It wouldn’t open. The heat was spreading up her arms, over her chest and into her head. She screamed, but it was only in her head, her lips no longer under her control. The pain was unbearable, and she could’ve sworn she was on fire, yet she saw no flames.

She walked over to the doctor. The man wasn’t moving, his eyes staring at nothing. Blood leaked around his head and upper body, settling into pools where the cushiony squares of the floor met. She squatted and pulled the scalpel from the man’s neck. Holding the weapon out in front of her, she felt the witch admiring it. The intense heat had died down within her, though it was still warm.

She reached out and pulled on the right eyelid of the doctor, stretching out the skin, then slowly, carefully, sliced it free. Gwen had tried not to watch, but saw what the witch saw. She wanted to throw up, but the sensation was all in her mind, or at least the part that was still hers.

The witch held the dangling, bloody piece of delicate flesh between her fingers, then arched her head back, opened her mouth, and dropped it in.

Gwen’s stomach churned as the witch chewed the rubbery morsel. She thought she was going to go insane and die right there, but nothing happened, except feeling the bits of skin slide down her gullet.

The witch repeated the process with the man’s other lid, then scooped out the eyeballs one at a time and ate them. From there, she plunged the scalpel’s blade into the man’s forehead and cut a deep line down and around his chin, coming back up the other side of his face, connecting the incision. Using her fingers, she pulled back on a portion of the severed skin, then worked to free more from the skull, and peeled off his face.

Gwen screamed in agony as this all happened, praying someone would come along and kill her, ending this hellish nightmare. But instead, the witch lifted the flesh-mask to her face and pressed the blood-lined skin against it. Through the heat, Gwen felt the coolness of Doctor Goldman’s flesh, causing her to shiver and gag, though only in her mind.

Finally, she heard the door to the room open.

“Oh my God!” a man’s voice said. “Help! I need help in here.”

Gwen was grateful, and looked forward to the witch leaving her body, and the amount of drugs she’d be pumped with. Hopefully, they would load her up so that nothing seemed real anymore and she could go off in a haze, never having to remember any of this again.

She turned her head around and saw the orderly, a heavyset man with blond hair and a mustache. He stood outside the room. Gwen rose to her feet, keeping the hand with the scalpel behind her back. She walked forward. The man standing at the door looked frightened. Finally, another man arrived. He was also large, with a shaved head. He looked into the room and his face showed surprise, then anger. He eyed Gwen.

“You little psycho bitch,” he said, and came into the room. The other man entered behind him, followed by a third man, this one tall and thin, but nevertheless imposing.

“She’s wearing his fucking face, man!” the blond-haired man said.

All three came forward, taking measured steps and holding out their arms.

Gwen wanted to warn them that she had a weapon, but it was no use. Two of the men came in on her and she whipped out the blade, slashing it across Shaved Head’s face, catching his left eye. He cried out as blood exploded from the socket.

Gwen continued to slash, catching the thin man across his forearms as he blocked her attack. She then went low and sliced his inner thigh. The white material of his pants bloomed with red and he went to his knees. She brought the weapon up, then down, planting it into the top of the man’s skull. She was ready to pull it free when Blond tackled her.

The witch threw the man off her, sending him across the room.

More men came into the room and approached her.

Empowered with the witch’s strength, she threw two of the men off her, then grabbed another around the throat and crushed his trachea. He staggered away and collapsed.

Someone jabbed her with a needle. She stepped back. Two men came in to grab her, but she fought on. The man with the punctured eye was sobbing, holding a hand to his face and stumbling about. She charged at him and punched him in the jaw, then grabbed him by the arm and flung him at one of the other guards.

“She ain’t going down!” one of the men yelled.

A giant of a man with a grotesque scar across his nose rushed in as another man came at her from the side. She moved with incredible speed, dodged both orderlies and dove for the scalpel. She scooped it up and stood at the far wall, holding the surgical knife out. Four men surrounded her, each one looking scared and breathing hard.

“I’ll cut your peckers off,” Gwen said. “Make you bleed like pigs.” She stuck the blade into her own face at the temple and cut a line across her forehead.

“Fuck this,” one of the men said, and turned to leave.

“She’s just a girl,” said another.

“No, Tim’s right,” said the man with the scar across his nose.

They all backed out of the room and closed the door.

Gwen looked around the room. Blood covered the walls and floor. She looked beyond the carnage for her own sanity, telling herself that she was inside the mind of an artist. When that didn’t work, she told herself she’d be dead soon, because there was no way they were stopping her, not with the witch possessing her.

“Don’t worry, dear,” her mouth said, but it wasn’t her voice. “I’ll be leaving soon, I just wanted to make sure you never leave this place, and after this, I’m sure they’ll lock you away in a nice, dark, padded cell all to yourself.” Laughter filled Gwen’s ears.

She walked to the center of the room and stood there.

Some time later, the door opened and three men in body armor entered the room. Their faces were hidden behind face shields and helmets covered their heads. They had Tasers and nightsticks. The hospital had called for outside help.

Gwen held the scalpel to her neck.

“Drop the knife, Gwen,” one of the men said.

“Fuck you,” she answered, and then the man fired his Taser. The volts coursed through Gwen’s body, but the electricity did little more than tickle her.

“Hit her again,” the man said, and his partner pulled the trigger on another Taser, but Gwen caught the barbs mid-flight. She smiled, licked the tips, then let them fall to the floor.

“What the hell?” the first man said.

Gwen stuck out her tongue, then jabbed the scalpel through it. She sliced down the middle of it, cutting it in half, then wiggled both pieces separately and cackled. She spit gobs of blood at the men, decorating their suits and face shields with red splotches.

Gwen knew what was to come. The witch wasn’t going to kill her. She wanted her to live, spend the rest of her life in this place, or somewhere worse. She saw her future self.

She was heavily sedated and restrained, her ankles, wrists and neck tied down. Here she would remain until she was shipped to another facility. Even through the drugs, she would feel the witch’s touch, her darkness. She would forever be inside her. Gwen could hope the medications would flush the sensation of anguish away or cover it up, but it would remain, festering like a sore that never healed. Misery and despair would fill her days and nights, nightmares and dreams. There would be no fixing her, for the witch had done too much damage.

The rubber room would become a place she longed for, having been sent to a maximum-security prison with a cold, gloom-filled psychiatric ward for the criminally insane. There she would remain for the rest of her days, drugged and in a stupor, alone in a cell. She knew she would be subjected to unimaginable horrors for what she had seen, done and felt. No amount of medication could quell her angst. There would be times when suicide would be an option, but her attempts would fail, because she would be under the strictest watch. Her only reprieve from her torment would be when death came and claimed her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sloan McGinnis drove the rental car from JFK International Airport to the small town of Salisbury Mills. He knew exactly where he was going, having studied the terrain maps back in Scotland. He thought of how the wardens of years ago had to go about their business. There were no planes to get them to places quickly. No internet with mapping and information about the lay of the land. Everything was a mystery, to a degree.

Sloan wouldn’t need a hotel. He wasn’t sure who his partner would be, but in a few minutes he would find out. Once the witch was dealt with, he would be returning home and his partner would move on to the next assignment, should there be one. But the witch they were going to be dealing with was powerful, so strong that she had tainted the soul of Eshram Vogel, a warden of legend, and Sloan’s great, great uncle.

According to the written records, Eshram had had to bind the witch to the island, locking her inside a devil’s barricade, a very effective method still used today. Most spirits could be vanquished, but when it was too dangerous, entrapment was the next best thing. But with any cell, there is the chance the imprisoned will one day escape, which was what it looked like had happened with the witch of Salisbury Mills.

First, a group of teenagers went missing. The sole survivor—the others presumably killed—had ranted about a witch. A short time later, the news reported that a host of families had been slaughtered and were missing, the town sheriff involved. This sent up red flags, and was why the Order had sent two wardens to take care of the matter.

Destroying a powerful spirit was tricky, and until he came into close proximity with it or its remains, he would not know if he would imprison or kill it.

He drove to the location indicated on his GPS device and parked the rental car alongside Lake Road. He exited the vehicle, opened the trunk, removed his satchel of goods and headed to the trail that led to where he was meeting his partner.

The day was beautiful, the weather warm, the humidity low. There was plenty of daylight left, the time he preferred to deal with spirits. His mood soured a little as he smelled cherry cigar smoke in the air. He knew the odor well, for there was only one warden who enjoyed smoking the things.

Sloan came from the trail and spotted Brody Kilgour waiting in the rowboat. Sloan had been expecting Angus Brennan to be his partner, having heard the warden was nearby. He and Angus were good friends and he’d looked forward to working with him.

“Sloan McGinnis,” Brody said, chuckling loudly. “Good to see you, man, and right on time as usual.”

Brody was a bulky man, with a full beard that hid his double chin, though he moved much faster than most people half his size.

“Brody,” Sloan said, nodding.

Sloan was all business when working, much like a boxer when he entered the ring. Why the Order had chosen to send Brody, his complete opposite, Sloan did not know, but trusted the elders in their decision-making. He sighed and focused on the task ahead.

Brody blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know you weren’t expecting me,” he said, “but your mate, Angus, was quite occupied, so they sent me.”

“Very well, then,” Sloan said. He walked up to the boat and into the water, not caring about his feet getting soaked. The men shook hands, each one having a spelled-blessed artifact held in their palms. If either man had been possessed by a spirit, the emblem would have singed the other’s flesh. Satisfied, Sloan stepped into the boat and the two shoved off.

“We should drink well tonight,” Brody said.

“We shall see,” Sloan said, wanting to roll his eyes. He liked to take one step at a time, and not skip ahead to the celebrating.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Brody went on. “We’re two strikingly handsome lads, and I saw a quaint little tavern just on the outside of town.”

“Your mind should be on the mission, not on pints,” Sloan said.

Brody burst out laughing as he continued to row. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. “You always get so wound up before a fight, so to speak. Don’t you ever stop and think that this might be your last? Might as well be jolly while you work, especially if you love what you do.”

“I’m plenty good with how I am,” Sloan said. Brody was a good warden. The man always performed well, did his job to the fullest and always lived to fight another day. It was just so hard to get past his nonchalant attitude and realize the man would be there for his partner, laying his life out there for him.

Brody continued to ramble, telling jokes and talking of old times. Sloan listened, not saying much, taking it all in stride.

When they reached the island, both men were surprised by what they felt, which was very little in the way of evil.

They gathered their supplies, Brody’s bag quite heavy, and traveled inward. Both men had come prepared with wards, blessed jewelry, runes and the thinking that they would have quite the battle on their hands. Not a plant, vine, or insect attacked them, and they felt no danger, though they stayed wary and ready.

Reaching the desolate clearing, Sloan felt his flesh grow slightly warmer. He stood next to the pole and held his palm over the grave. It warmed further, but did not grow hot. From what he’d learned of the witch, his hand should have been scalded.

“She’s fully abandoned her bones,” Brody said. “Left them vulnerable.”

“Hard to believe it, but we may have caught a small break,” Sloan said.

“It won’t be permanent. She’ll be back,” Brody said, dropping his satchel, the bag rattling to the ground.

“We better get to work,” Sloan said. “She’s sure to know we’re here now, and if not yet, she soon will.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The witch was ready to leave Gwen’s body. The girl would never see the light of day again. Her suffering would be endless. But the witch felt a disturbance in her soul. Unease spread through her, and she knew it was a warning sign. For the first time in decades, she was experiencing fear.

Someone was on the island, at the place of her bones, the source of her existence. For years, the island had remained secluded, a lonely place where no one had set foot. The witch had figured her bones safe from human hands, but someone—no, there were two someones—was at her grave. The presences had powerful enchantments, and they were hurting her. They weren’t some teenagers looking to party, but experienced witch hunters, there to kill her. She needed to get to the island, now.

The witch gathered her power, knowing she would need every ounce of it, calling upon the Good Mother to aid in her escape. The three armored men stood in front of her.

She charged forward, shoulder first, and rammed into the man in the middle of the group. He went down quickly, slamming into the soft floor. The witch struck out with both arms, landing powerful, crushing blows to the sides of the other two helmeted men. They flew to the side and out of her way.

She reached the door and was in the hallway in moments. More orderlies awaited, but these men weren’t wearing body armor. The witch swiped at the man in front of her. He tried dodging her attack, but was too slow. Her nails, like talons, dug into his face, reaching the skull beneath, and removed his entire cheek, along with his lower lip, the flesh tearing away like latex. He twirled, howling in agony, and collided with the wall.

The two orderlies standing behind him wore pale faces of terror. A wet spot had blossomed over one man’s crotch, the stink of urine filling the witch’s nose. Each man easily outweighed Gwen’s body by a hundred pounds, but regardless, both men turned and fled.

The witch ran after them, but did not attack.

They came to a locked, prison-like, barred door, one of many, the witch knew. She waited behind them as they fumbled with their keys. Strict security protocols had been put into effect. The witch knew it would be time consuming to try to leave through the various hallways, not to mention that she might even be killed, especially if the police were called in. If her bones were destroyed back at the island, and she was weak, her spirit would not survive. She would die.

The lock mechanism clicked loudly as the door was unlocked, the sound echoing down the hall. The orderly yanked the door open.

The witch couldn’t believe neither man had turned around, as if they sensed her there and were too frightened to look.

Both men ran through the doorway. The trailing orderly went to close the door, but yanked his hand back and screamed when he saw Gwen. He shoved his counterpart out of the way, knocking him to the floor.

The witch sank her claws into the downed man’s back, curled her fingers around his spine and heaved him off the ground and over her head. He cried out. Blood spurted from where her digits punctured his flesh, trailing down her arms.

Large, tall, mesh-covered windows were on the right, the glass filthy. Dank sunlight shone through.

The witch ran at one of the covered windows, slamming the man into it. The metal dented inward, but held. Over and over, she smashed the man into the grating, his cries fading as his face became a bloody, pulpous mess. Pieces of his flesh clung to the mesh, like slivers of cheese on a grater.

With a final heave and throw, the witch putting all she had behind it, the mesh gave completely. She heard the man’s neck snap. The thick plate glass cracked, but did not shatter. She picked up the sack of dead flesh, and threw him at the glass. The window shattered. Glass exploded outward, the man’s body going with it, tumbling two stories down before crumbling on the cobblestone walkway.

The witch hopped onto the windowsill. The jagged pieces of glass that were still stuck in the frame sliced through her slippers and into her feet. Looking out, she saw patients, orderlies and nurses running for help, the normally serene setting in chaos.

She leaped down, landing hard. Her power was the only thing keeping Gwen’s legs from crumbling under the impact.

She tore across the lawn, vaulted the fence and hurried through the woods. Sirens rang out from behind.

She knew the authorities would be after her, so she kept to the forest, crossing roads when she had to, making it to the lake in under an hour. She was weakening, but had managed to heal Gwen’s body, save minor scratches from branches whipping at her skin.

She swam through the water, moving fast, wondering why the men hadn’t tried destroying her remains yet. She knew it had to be a trap, but come she must. She crept onto the island, wishing she could shed her host’s form and use the island to do her bidding, but she couldn’t risk being without a body.

The witch made her way to the center of the island and looked upon the clearing. She saw one man standing over her grave. He was holding a container in his right hand. She sensed another person, but he was hidden somewhere near.

“You’re no match for me, warden,” the witch said, stepping into the clearing. “You or your friend.”

“Silly witch,” a voice said from behind. The witch turned around and saw the other warden. She moved to attack him, for he was only a few feet away, but rebounded backward when she reached the tree line. The man chuckled and shook his head. “Too easy.”

Having been so enraged and filled with fear, the witch hadn’t felt the power drain, but now she did. But it was impossible, unless they had placed a devil’s barricade around the entire clearing. She heard the hammering of metal, and turned around to see the other warden nailing the final spike into the ground around her grave, the devil’s barricade complete.

“Nooo!” she screamed and ran at him, feeling her power lessen with every step. She stopped as the man tossed the container he had been holding into the hole. Flames rose up, and the witch felt her soul grow cold. She was dying. The wardens had taken the chance and destroyed her bones. She was already weak from her escape, the giant devil’s barricade that encircled the clearing adding to her weakened state. They had double barricaded her, one to keep her from escaping using the girl’s body, the other around her bones in the event they didn’t destroy them, but had managed to get her back into them.

“We’ve learned a lot over the years, witch,” the warden by her grave said, and stepped from the clearing.

“I’ll kill you all,” the witch said, growing weaker and weaker as the moments passed. Her bones were gone. All she had left was her soul and the body she was possessing. She needed to kill the girl’s spirit and make the body hers. It was the only way she could survive. Both wardens were standing outside the clearing and the devil’s barricade. She scanned the area, looking for something to possess, to hide in, but there was nothing. Not a weed, a bug, nothing.

“You must fight her, Gwen,” one of the men said. “She will try and flush out your spirit.”

The witch tried to remove the girl’s soul. She gathered what power remained, but her host was a fighter, proving of strong will. Even if she had been able to claim the girl’s body, the wardens would never let her escape. With no other choice, she went to kill Gwen, putting her clawed hand to her throat, but her power had faded enough so that Gwen was able to stop her. She fought the girl, her will strong, but the witch found herself losing. She managed to force her healed tongue between her teeth, bit down, and chewed it like a piece of well-cooked steak. The witch let the pain through so that Gwen felt the anguish. The sudden jolt to Gwen’s system was too much for Gwen to bear, and gave the witch time to act.

Gwen had never experienced such pain. She had felt nothing, save the burning heat of the witch’s soul, while she was possessed. She hadn’t felt pain—the hits she’d taken from the orderlies, the severed tongue as the scalpel sliced through it, nor the glass slicing into the bottoms of her feet, or the crash landing when she jumped from the window. But for some reason, she felt herself mangling her own tongue. Her eyes teared and she screamed as blood filled her mouth. She lost control, let go of the hold she had over her body. Her hand reached up to her throat. She felt the nails sink in, the pain stabbing, then heard a suction-like noise as her throat was ripped out.

Gwen’s body grew cold, and even though she was dying, blood caking her front, she was relieved, knowing the witch had left her. Her soul had won, and she would be able to die in peace. Her vision of spending years in a psychiatric ward proved false.

Gwen smiled as she fell, the landing hard.

The wardens watched from the tree line as the girl died. There was nothing they could do for her. The witch’s spirit was free. Without her bones, the witch would perish. They had succeeded at the cost of a life, but succeeded nonetheless. A great and malevolent evil had been vanquished.

“It’s too bad about the girl,” Brody said, “but she never would’ve wanted to live after what that witch did to her.”

“And with the authorities after her, she’d certainly be locked up for good,” Sloan agreed.

“Drinks are on me,” Brody said, slapping Sloan on his back.

“What about the girl’s body?” Sloan asked.

“We’ll come back for it in a day or two, make sure the witch is gone for good.”

The two wardens walked down the overgrown trail and back to their boat.

The witch was almost gone, her spirit soaring around the clearing, desperate and pleading to the Good Mother, when she heard the tiny, remote flapping of wings. A mosquito had flown into the clearing, starved for blood. It went for the girl’s corpse. With her last ounce of strength, the witch sailed toward the insect, entering its body. She immediately felt better as the bug landed on the body and began to feed.

About the Author

David Bernstein is originally from a small town in Upstate New York called Salisbury Mills (Yes, the same town Witch Island is set in). He now resides in NYC (a far scarier place) and is hard at work on his next dark novel. He is the author of the novels, Amongst the Dead and Damaged Souls and the novella, The Tree Man. His forthcoming titles Apartment 7C and The Unhinged will be coming later this year from Samhain.

David writes all kinds of horror, from hair-raising ghost stories to gore-filled slashers to adventure-filled apocalyptic tales of terror. He loves hearing from his readers. You can reach him on Facebook, at www.facebook.com/david.bernstein.3. Visit him at his website: davidbernsteinauthor.blogspot.com or email him at dbern77@hotmail.com and follow him on Twitter at @Bernsteinauthor.

Look for these titles by David Bernstein

Now Available:

Amongst the Dead

Damaged Souls

The Tree Man

Coming Soon:

Apartment 7C

Young and alone against the living dead.

Amongst the Dead

© 2012 David Bernstein

Riley has lived alone with her dad in an isolated cabin in New York State for as long as she can remember. It’s just safer. Her dad’s told her about the time before the zombies, but she can only imagine it. Instead of playing with friends, Riley became a crack shot with a rifle. And she’ll need that skill now that her dad’s been bitten. She’ll be forced to leave the cabin and fight off zombies all on her own. She’s twelve years old. There’s a lot she’ll have to learn about the world she’s never really been part of. She already knows how to kill zombies. But now she’ll learn just how dangerous the living can be too.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Amongst the Dead:

The log cabin sat within a small clearing of the Catskill Mountains two miles north of the minute town of Roscoe, New York. The hamlet had been a resting point for travelers, its location just off Route 17, a busy highway used by people traveling from New York City to Binghamton. The nearby Beaverkill River, combined with the cabin’s wood stove, supplied drinkable water.

Two beds stood off in the far right corner of the bungalow, separated by a nightstand made from tree limbs. Each bed had a down pillow and two wool blankets, keeping the occupants warm during the wintry nights.

The cabin was stocked with food. Canned goods, jarred vegetables, beef jerky, pasta and oatmeal filled the shelves in the underground basement—a rough, but rather spacious, dug-out pit beneath the cabin. A red Oriental-style throw-rug covered the hidden door leading to the food supply.

Bill and his daughter, Riley, were blessed to have found the place and wondered for the first few days if the original owners would show. No one ever did.

Bill approximated that the food would last about three months between the two of them. They would dig in, rest for a spell; at least until the harsh winter ended. That was all before he became infected, having less than a few days to live.

The infection was spreading rapidly. He’d dug a grave, fifty feet from the cabin, as soon as he came back from Roscoe. His right arm had lost most of its color, becoming a chalky white, and was cracked with purple veins by the time he went to bed. He’d been bitten while scouting for supplies in the small town. It had seemed vacant, like most others this far north, but a group of the undead had been hiding out in one of the desolated stores.

The living dead were known to become docile when food wasn’t present, like a computer monitor switching to sleep mode, as if they were conserving power. Bill never understood why they needed energy; they were dead after all. Maybe it was the whole energy could never be destroyed, only converted into another form concept. Or maybe the living dead needed energy the way a living thing did.

Not much was known about the human brain, even in the year 2020, but for some reason it functioned in the undead. A zombie’s brains could get blown out, but if the brain-eye connection wasn’t severed in the process, the undead would remain active.

The eyes of an undead had an eerie, radiant-like quality as if they held a source of power. Usually a shot to the head was enough to sever the connection—the optic nerves running to the center of the brain where they met, before splitting into two again and extending into the back of the head—but taking out the eyes themselves was a sure way to stop them.

Bill had entered four stores, looking for supplies during his time in town, when the fifth proved fatal. Four zombies sprang at him like hungry hyenas on a weakened prey.

He’d managed to take out three with his .30-30 rifle, his speed and former military training proving handy. The fourth, however, grabbed him. Man and zombie wrestled, slamming into walls and thrashing about, sending empty bottles and cardboard boxes sailing. During the struggle Bill dropped the rifle, his hand slipping up high and grazing the creature’s mouth. He felt the nauseous sting of rotten, infected teeth puncture his skin. The zombie held on like a pitbull, biting down with ferocious force, taking a large chunk of Bill’s fleshy hand.

He needed to chop off his infected arm before it managed to spread, but the zombie wanted more of his flesh.

Bill dove, grabbed his rifle from the floor and managed to get the weapon under the creature’s jaw. He pulled the trigger and sent a splattering of brain and skull matter to the ceiling. The zombie’s left eye went dim, but the right was still aglow. The creature attacked, slamming its fist into his temple as he got another shot off, blasting its right eye to hell. The creature slumped to the floor like it was made of blubber, but the impact from its punch sent Bill flying backward. He bashed his head against the countertop’s jagged edge, knocking him unconscious.

He awoke four hours later; amputation of the infected area no longer an option. The sickness had had enough time to spread throughout his body.

The disease, or virus, was spread through the blood stream, killing cells as it traveled. He’d bandaged the wound, hoping there was a chance he’d be okay, but that evening his joints were already aching. By the next morning he found it difficult to move his limbs, experiencing the beginnings of living rigor mortis. He hadn’t told his daughter; the thought of her alone in the world was horrifying.

Since the planet’s initial outbreak, in 2020, Bill had been keeping a journal of their travels, sights and methods of survival. And since returning from town, he’d spent his time writing down everything he could for his daughter. Every military tip he could think of, adding precise details for fishing, boiling water, cooking meat and hunting. Tears fell on the paper as he wrote, blurring some of the words.

When Riley was awake, he spent every second with her while teaching her the basics of self preservation, and giving her as much love as he could. She was only twelve.

She had asked him why his hair was falling out, if he was feeling all right, and why he looked so weak. And every time she asked a question, he would answer the same, telling her not to worry and that he’d be okay.

Alone, the food would last her eight months. He’d already taught her how to shoot; a necessity for surviving in a world gone to hell. Her shoulder, from practicing over time, had hardened, making the rifle’s impact no longer a problem. Bill’s time was up.

“Daddy’s going away,” he said, her azure eyes locking onto his. He stared into the extension of himself, the female version, her silky dark hair hanging off her shoulders like angel hair spaghetti.

“When will you be back?” she asked, gripping his hand, worried.

He was sweating, the fever reaching delirium levels.

“I’m sick, baby. I don’t have any time left.” He paused, holding back tears. “Everything is prepared, a bit rushed but ready, nonetheless. You don’t have to worry about food or water for some time.”

His head ached as if a hammer pounded at it. He was having a difficult time concentrating. “Wait here,” he said, getting up off the bed. He walked over to the mirror hanging on the wall; his reflection was sickening, as if staring into the face of a severely burned radiation victim. His hair was almost gone, with strands poking about in patches. Blackened teeth lined his bleeding gums; his eyes were sunken in and hollowed out revealing the skull beneath. The face he looked upon so many mornings was now an unfamiliar gaunt mess, void of color and lined with sweat.

“I have to go now,” he said, turning to his daughter. He was amazed at how little she’d asked about his condition as it worsened hour by hour. She had believed him when he told her not to worry.

“No, Daddy,” Riley cried, jumping off the bed, running to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. Bill let her have her last good-bye before pushing her away.

He had thought about telling her how truly special she was, but what was the point? Riley was twelve and would be hitting puberty soon. He had no idea what would happen then. Nothing about her condition was known for certain, and telling her could lead to her doing something careless. So he decided it was best to keep her past a secret. She needed to be on her toes, cautious.

“I love you, Riley. Always and forever.” He turned, grabbed the rifle—knife attached to his belt—and left, closing the door behind him.

He limped, brushing aside prickly pines and bare branches, leaving a dogged trail through the snow-covered forest. His right leg dragged as it refused his commands. When he made it to the grave he turned and stood with his back to it.

If done correctly he should fall backward, collapsing and breaking through the branches he placed across the hole. The forest leaves, twigs and other debris should cover him enough. He didn’t want his daughter burying him or seeing his dead body when she came for the rifle. He’d left her with the .38 snubnose revolver. A nice piece for close encounters, but she’d need the rifle for hunting and long-ranged defense.

He picked up a small branch and bit down on it before raising the knife to his left eye and jabbing himself with the tip. The eyeball ruptured, its juices exploding like a jelly-filled balloon. He moaned, wanting to scream from sheer terror, but his daughter might hear.

With blood and eye fluid leaking down his cheek, he spit out the piece of wood. He placed the rifle against his good eye and pulled the trigger, knowing his daughter was special and would be fine.

Only he can stop the gates of Hell from opening wide.

Damaged Souls

© 2013 David Bernstein

John Crawford wasn’t able to deal with the pain and took the easy way out. At least he thought he did. Instead, he’s been offered a deal by a nightmarish creature and given a second chance at life. But he’s no longer human. And he’s been assigned an impossible task. He must kill a demon before it opens the gates of Hell and brings about the apocalypse. If John succeeds, the human race will be safe and he can become human again. If he fails, mankind will perish and he will be lost for all eternity.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Damaged Souls:

The demon ran through the woods of Black Rock Mountain, just outside of the small hamlet known as Salisbury Mills, a small town located in Upstate New York. The hell-fiend’s powers were weak. It had to use them to defend itself against the throng of villagers that were chasing after it.

The demon had taken over the body of a local farmer, a sick and twisted man who enjoyed killing children. The human had been easy pickings, and perfect for the fiend. But the demon had lost control and was careless, killing too many, too close to home.

The murder spree had been euphoric, its favorite body parts there for the taking. Oh, how it reveled in the pain of others. It had gained the attention of the townsfolk and its constable, a man with a keen nose for solving murder.

The demon heard the villagers’ footfalls and the snapping of branches as the townspeople pursued it. With the Sinerth, the tome of suffering, in its possession and knowing its time would be up soon, the demon headed for the shack where it had brought its victims—the place it had built the ceremonial chamber.

Bursting through the door, it only had minutes to hide the book. It stepped over the corpses it had acquired, the five bodies positioned to form a pentagram. The place was rank with the odor of blood, the metallic smell exciting the fiend. Seeing what it had almost accomplished—the bodies, the altar, the blood bowls—the demon cursed itself. It had been so close to fulfilling its duty.

Opening the ancient tome, a book made from human and demon flesh, the fiend read a spell of resurrection. The fiend felt its power drain further, the spell a powerful one. Then using the blood in one of the sacrificial bowls, it splashed each corpse on the head and poured the remaining blood onto the page containing the spell. Black smoke sizzled from the parchment and rose into the air, spreading out like a swarm of agitated bees. The dark cloud broke into five separate funnels, then shot into each of the corpses’ mouths.

“Come out, demon,” the town’s priest demanded.

Torchlight flickered against the shack’s windows, through which the demon saw the angry mob. Standing beside the priest was the constable, a rugged and hardened man from the town. Most of the villagers carried farmers’ tools, axes, pitchforks and sickles, but a few had double-barrel shotguns.

The demon couldn’t hope to survive, but the book would at least be safe until the creature returned. How ever long that might be, it did not know, but unlike this time, it wouldn’t have to wander the countryside looking for the tome. It would know where to go, having secured it properly, and would be able to go to work on its task and redeem itself, for surely its master would be furious at its failure.

The dead bodies rose to their feet, standing before the demon, ready to do its bidding. Pointing to the door, it commanded the undead to attack the villagers and keep them at bay for as long as possible. The soulless things exited the shack, fear unknown to them.

Gunshots rang out. Villagers screamed.

With the townsfolk occupied, the demon had time to hide and secure the book. In the far corner of the building, it wrapped the tome in an enchanted cloth, a cloth that would help keep the book’s powers at bay, yet still allow the thing to be active.

Next, the fiend pulled up a set of the floorboards and placed the book inside before replacing the planks of wood. With the book covered and out of its grasp, the demon grew even weaker, having used most of its strength to raise the dead.

The gunshots had stopped.

“Burn the unholy place,” one of the villagers yelled, and the entire crowd began chanting.

“Burn! Burn! Burn!”

The demon heard the thuds of the villagers’ torches as the flaming sticks collided against the shack’s walls and roof, hoping to turn the place into nothing more than a pile of ash. But the building wouldn’t burn—no, and the demon knew this—for the ancient tome protected its place of rest. Not wanting to take a chance that the villagers would venture inside, the demon ran outside, stopping a few feet from the lawman.

The crowd went quiet.

The priest began reading from the Good Book.

The demon felt the man’s words pierce its flesh, like thousands of needles puncturing its skin. It was too weak to flee or fight, and the man was a true believer. At full strength it could have silenced him, ripped out his tongue and eaten it.

Fighting through the pain, the demon laughed.

Can two kids alone stop a monstrous evil?

The Tree Man

© 2014 David Bernstein

Women and children have been mysteriously disappearing from Evan’s town.  And now Evan may know why.  He was climbing a tree in the woods when he saw a decrepit old man toss a helpless woman into the mouth of a hideous tree-like creature.

Evan knows he can’t stop the man and the creature by himself, but he also knows no one will believe a kid with such a wild story.  Only his best friend, Peter, can help him confront this terrifying evil.  But if they aren’t careful, they will soon be missing too.

Enjoy the following excerpt for The Tree Man:

A decrepit-looking, elderly man, skin hanging from his bones like loose rubber bands, wearing a flannel shirt and shabby blue jeans, dragged the body of a screaming woman through the woods. The man’s appearance didn’t match his inhuman strength. The woman thrashed around, but the man marched on, unaffected. She was bloodied and full of gashes. Her cobalt-colored dress was shredded, exposing her hot-pink panties and bra. Many of her fingernails were missing, leaving only raw and exposed meat, but the few remaining were painted a brilliant scarlet.

The man passed through thorn bushes, but never bled or gave the slightest suggestion that they bothered him.

He approached a cultivated hayfield, halting just inside the tree line. Summer winds blew, swaying the lazy grains of hay in unison as if caught in a melodic trance.

The field was rectangular in shape, extending like an airport runway to his left, before abruptly ending at the base of Black Rock Mountain. The forest picked up again a quarter mile across, the direction he was heading.

The woman’s monotonous screams became audible pleadings. She wanted to negotiate, to strike a deal, but the man wouldn’t hear of it. He let go of her ankle, walked up to her teary-eyed face, and nonchalantly kicked her in the forehead. Her head jerked violently back and forth, as if spring-loaded, and she fell silent. Her long blonde hair, caked with briars, dirt, and leaves, lay over her face, covering it like a misplaced wig. If the man had wanted, he could have kicked her head clean off her shoulders. Grabbing an ankle, the man continued into the golden field.

Baby-blue skies, dotted with white puffy clouds, stretched out for miles overhead. The scene would have been brochure worthy had the man not been present, like a cockroach creeping across a freshly made coconut cream pie. The hay seemed to separate a few feet ahead of him as if avoiding his touch. He didn’t belong where he was, but what was anyone to do about it?

The sky began to darken, turning a navy blue, and the clouds grew smoky in hue.

A hulking oak tree, appearing leafless and charred, as if struck repeatedly by lightning, stood by its lonesome fifty feet from where the forest began again.

The man marched up to the monstrous oak, stopping a few feet from its base. He released the woman’s ankle, letting it flop to the ground. The sky darkened to a plum-colored hue, and the winds had all but died.

Thirteen-year-old Evan McCormick had been up in a tree when he first heard the screaming. He froze, listening, his chest unmoving, a spark of panic mixed with curiosity entering his brain. He saw the old man exit the tree line and march across the field, the screaming, pleading sounds he heard coming from the woman. From that point on, Evan didn’t dare move. He remained seated on the branch, his fingers wrapped tightly around the tree’s bark, and watched as the old man approached the charred-looking tree.

After releasing the woman, the old man backed away from the tree. He held his arms out wide like an opera singer bellowing a grand note. He swayed back and forth and began chanting something foreign. It seemed odd that the man could speak, having appeared zombielike until that moment.

The tree began to sway, as if following the man’s movement; and not a hint of wind blew. The thinnest of the branches were stirring, twitching, and soon the thicker ones were moving too. The trunk twisted and the branches whipped about.

The woman woke up and began screaming again, her words incoherent. The man stopped chanting and lowered his arms. One of the tree’s tentacles reached down toward her. The woman managed to get to her feet. She turned to flee, but the branch wrapped itself around her calf like a python, then the smaller twigs gripped her as a human hand would and lifted her from the ground. Her dress flipped upside down, revealing her pink-colored underwear in full. She screamed louder.

The tree’s base bent awkwardly back as the woman soared high into the air. A large horizontal crack appeared in the tree trunk. It widened, then parted, revealing a mouth with numerous jagged teeth. It seemed to yawn, the inside a black abyss. The woman flailed about, trying to break free, but the tree added more of its tentacles to her leg. A growl emanated from the creature’s maw.

The tree-thing lowered the prey to its mouth, but the woman braced herself, using her arms to keep from going in. The tree roared in protest, shoving the woman down with force. Her right arm slipped into the blackness, but her shoulder slammed against the side of the creature’s mouth, preventing her from entering any farther. The monster’s jaws closed, taking the woman’s arm. Blood gushed from the stump, covering the bark in glistening red. The tree growled and swung the wailing woman into the air before bringing her back down with whiplike speed. Her right side slammed into the tree’s waiting mouth. Its jaws slammed shut, taking a huge chunk of the woman’s hip and stomach. Blood exploded forth as she bellowed in agony.

Another branch sailed down and collided with the woman’s back, breaking her in half—the wicked snap of bone echoing above all else. She fell silent. With her body bent backward and in the shape of the letter V, head and feet meeting, the creature began shoving the meal into its mouth.

Witch Island

David Bernstein

A witch’s curse from beyond the grave!

Witch Island used to be feared. Even the bravest would not dare go there. Legend said a witch had been burned alive at the stake, and upon her death she cursed the town. Terrified residents performed rituals to keep her spirit trapped on the island where she was buried.

Now, over a hundred years later, a group of high school seniors have decided to forgo the local graduation parties and have a small gathering of their own—on Witch Island. They don’t fear the legends. They scoff at them. But the group will soon learn these particular legends are nothing to scoff at. And Witch Island will prove far worse than they could have ever imagined.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

Witch Island

Copyright © 2014 by David Bernstein

ISBN: 978-1-61921-869-7

Edited by Don D’Auria

Cover by Scott Carpenter

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com

Table of Contents

- Dedication
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- About the Author
- Look for these titles by David Bernstein

- Also Available from Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

- Back Cover Copy

- Copyright Page